


Soul Metachrosis

by BookwormA



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Horrortale (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Biting, Blood, Bonding, Branding, Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Cannibalism, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Torture, Self-Esteem Issues, Slut Shaming, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Thriller, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Yandere Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 105,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookwormA/pseuds/BookwormA
Summary: You’ve dealt with a lot of rejection in your life. No matter how many times it happens, the sting still hurts. It’s the worst experience in the world.Or so you thought.But what if it turns out the opposite, having someone try to express his endearment toward you, ends up being the most unsafe, twisted, and damaging thing to your soul and your sanity?AU-HorrortaleStarred chapters (*) will have explicit content!
Relationships: Sans (Horrortale)/Reader
Comments: 458
Kudos: 422





	1. 1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I've been reading stories on this site for a few years now, but this is the first of my own that I've ever dared put up, so I hope people enjoy! However, just as a word of caution, I do plan on making this a dark, psychological thriller type thing, so please mind the tags and warnings before each chapter! 
> 
> I'm still getting used to adding tags/warnings, so if you feel I've missed something, please let me know! I appreciate and value any criticism and critique about my writing, etc!  
> That being said, again, I hope people enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Alcohol/Drug Use, Racism, some negative thoughts, and assumption of gender (although accidental)
> 
> See the end for more notes.

Of all the mistakes you had ever made in your life, this was undoubtedly the worst of them.

The high from the joint you’d smoked before coming to this club is starting to wear off, and your stomach is churning from the alcohol shots your girlfriends had insisted on ordering. But nothing felt as gross as watching Andrew stare at you with that pitying expression on his face as he wiped your lipstick off his lips.

“ _(Y/n)_ , please, don’t take this the wrong way.” Though the music roars around us, you can hear every word he speaks as clearly as if the both of you had been standing in a library. “You’re incredible, really, you are. But I just don’t feel that way about you. I like being your friend.”

Your cheeks are so hot. Of course Andrew just wants to stay friends. You guys have been friends since elementary school. He was the only one who stuck with you after high school graduation. Obviously all those tender moments you’d been noticing lately, those shoulder pats and the winking faces at the end of teasing texts had just been friendly gestures. Obviously the hugs he gave when you were feeling crappy, the ones that made your whole body feel warm and your brain cease its racing had just been symbols of platonic support. How could you have been so stupid as to think he could ever see you as anything other than a friend?

Andrew is watching you cautiously now, waiting for your reaction. “I…I hope we can still be friends?”

He’s asking genuinely. The pulsing throb of his green soul in his chest gives it away.

You fake a smile, because what else can you do? “Of course."

He opens his mouth to speak again, but before he can get the words out, you interrupt him. “I have to use the washroom.” Then you tear off in the opposite direction, darting in between mobs of dancing, drinking people before he can stop you or follow you.

By the time you reach the bar, you feel your phone buzz against your thigh through the pocket of your ultra-skinny jeans. When you slide your finger across the screen to read it, you see it’s from one of your girlfriends.

_Amy: So, how did it go? Shall we expect a text saying he’s taking you back to his place tonight? ;) Jessie and I are dying for details!_

How do you respond to that? How do you let them know that all of their hard work in picking out the perfect outfit has gone to waste? That the makeup they’d tediously applied is ruined, but only due to the tears now streaming down your cheeks? That your hair, which they’d spent a good hour with in a curling iron and then doused in different sprays to ensure that the curls would actually stay, isn’t even going to be touched by your crush, let alone pulled and teased in the passion act of love making?

As you debate the best way to answer, a scuffle to the left of you catches your ear.

“What’s someone like you doing here? Trying to pick up a chick?”

“Who would ever be interested in someone like you?”

“Fucking _monster_. Go back wherever you came from.”

Oh _hell_ no. Your head swivels to the left and you watch in disgust as two dudes shove and taunt someone who is seated at the bar. It is a monster, a skeleton you realize, who looks taller then you even sitting down. He’s big too, with broad shoulders covered by a worn blue jacket with a fluffy white hood. He could probably throw both of those dudes easily across the bar, but it looks like he’s just trying to enjoy his drink, staring straight ahead at his bottle with darkened eye sockets.

If you had to pick one thing you hated more than the sting of rejection, it was racism. And just because you’re having a crappy night here tonight doesn’t mean anybody else here deserves to as well. So you wipe the streaks of mascara from your cheeks, straighten your shoulders, and stride forward, formulating your plan as you walk.

“There you are!”

The jerks pause their pushing and stare slack-jawed as you saunter over and throw your arms around the skeleton’s shoulders. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Up this close, you can see multiple cranial fractures running through the skeleton’s skull, including a jagged hole on the left side. The skeleton tilts his gaze up to stare at you, and you wink back, mentally encouraging him to play along. A beat passes, and then he smiles up at you, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

“heh. sorry babe. figured alcohol might not solve all my problems, but it was _worth a shot_.”

The pun catches you off guard, and you laugh a little, before turning your attention back to the racist dirtbags, who continue to stare at you. The souls in their chests are orange. Typical. Why does bravery make some people think it means they can do anything they want?

“I don’t think I’ve met you guys before. Are you friends with my _boyfriend_?” You fake a smile and plant a quick smooch on the part of the skeleton’s face where a cheek would be to further play the character of loving girlfriend before internally focusing on their intangible organs. It takes a little while longer than usual and a little more mental effort with the remnants of alcohol and drugs still running through your system, but eventually you’re able start a gradual color shift. What was once a glowing shade of tangerine orange is now a vibrant shade of emerald.

If the two guys noticed or felt the change at all, they don’t show it, though the expressions on their faces shift from cocky to ashamed. “N…no,” one of them mumbles, staring down at the ground. “We aren’t friends. Sorry to bother you.” Then, without another word, they both turn and leave.

As soon as they are both out of sight, you release the skeleton and take a seat at the bar beside him, passing him a napkin in case he wants to wipe your lipstick off his bone. “Guys suck, don’t they…”

The skeleton doesn’t say anything or move to wipe the lip marks away. Instead, he just stares at you. His eye sockets aren’t just empty and black you realize; two tiny pinpricks of white light in their centers act as pupils. They aren’t enough to tell what he’s thinking or feeling, but his left socket is slowly filling with red light, and suddenly you wonder if you’ve somehow insulted him. “Not that you suck,” you rush to add before the length of silence gets awkward. But as soon as that has left your mouth your eyes widen. “I mean, if you identify as a guy! Not that what you identify as is any of my business! Just…” You groan and bury your head in your hands. “Please, ignore everything that’s coming out of my stupid, stupid mouth.”

There’s nothing but the pounding dance club music for a while, but then a deep rumble adds itself to the uproar. You peek out over your elbow and through the curtain of your hair to confirm what you think it is. The skeleton chuckles as he reaches to take another sip from his bottle. “dunno, i was kinda enjoying everything that was coming outta your mouth. But for your information, I do identify as male.” He gestures to the rows of different drink options behind the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You flush and sit up straight again. “I probably shouldn’t. I think I’ve drunk enough tonight.”

“come on,” he urges, flashing his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “one more surely won’t do any harm. what is it they say? you can’t buy happiness, but you can buy booze and that’s kinda the same thing?”

You laugh and feel the tension in your body release as you relent. “I could use a little happiness tonight.”

So you tell him what you’d like to drink, and after the bartender brings it over, the skeleton holds up his drink in the air. “to happiness.”

Raising your own glass, you clink it against his bottle. “To happiness.” When you take a sip, the burn of strong alcohol does make you feel a little better. “I’m _(y/n)_.”

“sans. sans the skeleton.”

“I’m sorry about those assholes.” You gesture in the direction the two guys had walked off in. “I can’t believe they haven’t made it illegal to treat monsters like that yet.”

Sans shrugs and takes another sip. “No matter how long we’re up on the surface for, or how many laws they pass making monsters equal to humans, you can’t change every soul.”

You turn and take another sip of your own drink, trying to be careful with the words in your next comment. Because if you had it your way, you would.

Being able to manipulate soul color is something you’ve been able to do since you were little. But even after the monsters came up from under the mountain and information about souls started becoming more common knowledge, you’ve never told anyone. Not that you’re ashamed of it, or scared of it. You just don’t need another reason for people to look at you strangely.

Finally you come up with something. “Still doesn’t make it right.”

Just then, your phone vibrates on the countertop, and when you look, you realize that you have several missed texts from Amy and Jessie.

“Oh shoot, I should go. My friends are looking for me.” You rush to get off the barstool. “It was nice to meet you. Thanks for the drink.”

“yeah, you too. say, maybe we could exchange numbers? to keep this conversation going later?” He pulls his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and at first you hesitate. You don’t usually give your phone number out to strangers at clubs and bars.

But…this skeleton seems friendly enough. And considering how rocky your friendship with Andrew might become after the disaster earlier, more friends couldn’t hurt to have.

So you rattle off the digits and watch in fascination as his phalanges tap against his screen. Shortly after, your phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: alcohol you later_

Your grin gets a little wider, and you flip your phone around to show that you received the text before dashing off to try to find your friends.

“It was nice to meet you!” You holler over your shoulder, and Sans lifts a hand in farewell.

As you surge deeper into the mass of people around you, mood lifted a little, you don’t see how the red light in his eye socket grows brighter.


	2. Uncomfortable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little less nice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind words and support for the first chapter! I'm super excited to continue writing this story and seeing where it goes. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Negative self thoughts, thoughts of self harm, mentions of drug use, stalking, sending of inappropriate messages/pictures. 
> 
> Please mind the warnings and tags, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!

“So, let me get this straight,” Amy stretches out an arm holding a fork to steal yet another bite of your poutine. “You swoop in like a princess in shining armor, this skeleton monster buys you a drink, and you _didn’t_ stick around to see if he’d invite you back to his place to jump his bones?"

You arch an eyebrow. “You guys were the ones sending me a hundred texts trying to find me.”

“Well you could have told us something had come up!” Jessie chimes in, wiggling her eyebrows. “We would have understood if you’d had _other plans_.”

You roll your eyes and stab your lunch with your own utensil, but don’t lift the cheese curds and gravy to your mouth. There’s no point in telling them one-night stands don’t really interest you. “This happened a week ago. Why are you guys still harping me about it?”

Jessie grabs your hand. “We just want you to be happy _(y/n)_. You _deserve_ to be happy.”

You smile weakly back at her. “I’m fine Jessie. Really.”

Someone entering the university cafeteria catches your eye. Tall, with blond hair and long, lanky strides. It’s Andrew.

He goes through the line, grabbing options for his own meal. After he pays he stands and browses for an available seat. In his search, his gaze lands on you, and you both freeze under the eye contact. You don’t even think your lungs can expand or contract to take a breath. 

Even without his usual, casual smile, he still looks beautiful. Hair playfully unkempt, with little strands that fall into his eyes. You wish you could brush them back like you used to. Not just so you can feel the warmth of contact that used to be so familiar between the two of you. From this distance, you can’t tell if there are bags under his eyes. Has he been getting enough sleep? Or has he been crying himself to sleep for the past seven nights the way you have?

Despite him saying he wanted to remain friends, he’s kept his distance these past few days. Maybe he wants you to make the first move. But you don’t know how. You could change his soul color, force him to be the one to act first. But the idea of doing that to him doesn’t feel right. You like Andrew for who he is, green soul and all. Changing the color could potentially turn him into a different person, and that was something that can’t be risked.

Besides, just seeing him at a distance makes your heart ache and your throat close up.

Andrew is the first to break eye contact, and walks away in the opposite direction of your table. Water starts to build in the corners of your eyes as you watch, and you push back your chair to stand, ignoring your lunch. It has hardly been touched by you anyway. Jessie and Amy look up at you, brows pinched with concern.

“I…I better go. Soul Theology starts soon,” Another lie; the class doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, and it’s so easy you could probably pass without actually attending a single lecture in the entire semester. But your friends don’t try to stop you as you gather up your things and leave in the direction of the lecture halls.

Once out of the cafeteria, you duck into the first encountered washroom. It’s empty, thank god, so you head for the handicap stall, slam the door shut and twist the lock as hard as you can. When you’re positive nobody can get in, you slide down the wall until you’re on the cold tile floor. Knees bent against your chest, you wrap your arms around them to try to stop the trembles that have begun to take over.

It wasn’t fair. Why was he able to go about his days without feeling like at any minute, he was about to fall apart? Why wasn’t his concentration dashed to shreds by the unwavering desire to send texts saying, “I’m sorry. It was stupid to kiss you. I don’t really feel that way; I was just drunk; can things go back to the way they were?” How could things go back to normal when you couldn’t even think his name without feeling like your world was crumbling around you?

_Of course things can’t go back to normal._

_Why would someone as wonderful as him ever want to stay friends with someone as worthless as you?_

_He was probably only friends with you because he felt sorry for you. Now he doesn’t need to hide it anymore._

The skin on your arms starts to itch under the sleeves of your long-sleeved shirt. How you wish you could run home, lock yourself in your own bathroom, and make yourself calm down with the only method that seems to work. Sure, the bite of a razorblade would sting a bit at first, but then the thoughts would quiet down, and it would be easier to keep everything inside. Besides, what was a little ache in your muscles and tendons compared to the unceasing agony that was ripping your very being into bloody pieces?

Maybe you should skip class, just this once. You know other people taking this lecture; not well, but you could email one of them and say you’d suddenly come down with a bug. Surely someone would be willing to send you their notes.

Maybe…

The buzz of your cell phone interrupts your deliberation, and when you reach down to check it, you see it’s a text from Sans.

_Sans: why didn’t the skeleton go to the party?_

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: I don’t know. Why?_

His response comes almost instantaneously.

_Sans: he had no body to go with_

A snotty snort breaks through your tears, and soon you’re laughing instead of crying. How does he always seem to know exactly when you need a pick-me-up? All throughout this past week, when you’ve been feeling your lowest, he’s been sending texts with stupid skeleton jokes. And they’ve been helping.

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: That was terrible._

_Sans: You wound me, (y/n). Or at least, you would, if I had any skin to wound._

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: Thank you. I really needed that right now._

_Sans: anytime, sweetheart. you deserve to be treated right._

Your cheeks warm at the pet name, but before you can type a response, he sends another message.

_Sans: that idiot doesn’t know a good thing when he sees one._

You frown. How does he know about Andrew? You haven’t mentioned him to Sans at all. The only people you’ve told are Amy and Jessie. Could they have somehow spilled what happened to him without realizing he was the skeleton you’d met at the club? But this was such a personal thing; surely they wouldn’t have told a random stranger or talked about it in a public place?

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: How do you know about that?_

This time his response take a little longer to come through, but you do get one after a couple of minutes pass.

_Sans: i’m in one of his lectures. overheard him talking to a couple buddies about you. he was laughing, saying how pathetic it was that you thought he’d have any interest in someone like you._

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: Oh. I see._

Before you receive any more messages, you say goodbye, telling him your class starts soon before completely powering your phone off. And that night, before you go to sleep, you log onto all of your social media accounts and remove Andrew from every single one.

When you close your eyes, this is the first night they aren’t filled with tears before you drift off into sleep.

***

_Sans: so, I gotta question for ya._

Another week has passed since the incident. You’re at home in your cheap, messy apartment, working on a paper that’s due soon when you get this new text from Sans. You fire one back, fully prepared for his response to be the start of another groan-worthy joke.

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: Okay, shoot._

What you get is so far from what you expected you have to look at it twice to ensure you read it correctly.

_Sans: got two tickets for this band that’s playing tomorrow night. wanna make it a date? you and me?_

He wants to go on a date with you? _You_? Was this his idea of a cruel joke? You stand and pace and stare at your phone for so long that you almost drop it when it vibrates again in your grip.

_Sans: heh, still alive sweetheart?_

He’s serious. My god, he’s _serious_. He wants to take you out on a date. Why you? He hardly knew you!

Not that there was much to know. You definitely aren’t anything special. You’re just a less than average looking, self-loathing mess, filled to the brim with mistakes. Even what you’re studying isn’t anything remarkable. You aren’t going to make any huge world changes. While you had loved your arts degree when you’d first started, the mail pile building on your kitchen table that is your constant reminder you’re behind on payments makes it challenging to completely enjoy now.

And…as much as you hate to admit it, you’re still holding on to a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe you can work things out with Andrew.

With shaky hands, you compose what you hope is a legible response.

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think I’m ready to try dating anybody right now. Need some time to focus on me._

_Sans: you’re making a mistake_

You choke on your disbelief as you look down at the screen. Making a mistake? How dare he say something like that? How dare he assume he knows anything about what’s right or wrong for you?

At first you debate not even gratifying him with a response. But the reminder that you know what it’s like to be rejected gives you a little bit of sympathy. So you type out a brief good night message before putting your phone away and continuing with your school work.

When you check again before you go to sleep, Sans hasn’t responded.

***

Sans doesn’t send his stupid joke texts anymore.

Sans: _i could make you feel so good babe. just give me a chance. please, one chance is all I’m asking for_

Now they’re all flirty, filled with sexual innuendos and pet names. You’ve asked him multiple times to stop, but that hasn’t helped. If anything, it’s made the messages more constant. You try showing them to Amy and Jessie, but all they do is laugh at your concern and say you still have a chance to, ‘jump those bones’ if you want it.

_Sans: you look so beautiful in that red dress. and those heels…the things I wanna do to you while you’re wearing those shoes._ only _those shoes._

You gasp and whirl around to look behind you, but the only people seated there are a couple of human students with all of their attention on the professor. They stare at you quizzically, and you mouth, “Sorry,” before deleting the texts, and trying to refocus on what’s being taught.

But after class, you make your way to the nearest hair salon and get your hair dyed the darkest shade of black they have. And when you arrive home, you throw what used to be your favorite red dress and heels in the garbage.

***

_Sans: why you gotta tease me like this, sweetheart? don’t you know this only makes me want you more?_

This time, you delete and block Sans’ number from your phone. You’ve been feeling like there have been eyes following you all week. Whenever you turn to look behind you, nobody’s there. It could just be a really delayed side effect of the weed you’ve been smoking to help you sleep at night, but somehow you doubt it.

Your suspicions are confirmed the day you find a package sitting in front of the door to your apartment suite. Inside is a pair of heels and red dress identical to what you threw away.

As you’re stuffing the ‘gift’ as deep into your garbage can as it’ll go, you feel your phone rumble. You don’t even want to look at it, but what if it’s important?

It’s an unknown number, but you know exactly who it is.

_xxx-xxx-xxxx: see what you do to me, sweetheart?_

There’s a file attached. You shouldn’t open it. You don’t want to open it. You _really_ don’t want to open it. Yet for some reason, you do.

When the image downloads, you gasp and slam your phone down screen first on your counter top, on the verge of hyperventilation.

That is a dick. That is undeniably an honest to god, glowing, fully erect _dick_.

Your entire body vibrates when you press down on the call button. You have no plan for what to say, but this has gone too far.

He picks up after the first ring.

“hey sweetheart. wanted to tell me what you thought in person?”

Even your voice shakes when you start to talk. “Y…you need to cut this shit out. If you think this is funny, I promise it’s not. It’s not right. It’s sick. _You’re_ sick.”

Though his tone is deep, his words come out light-hearted. “heh. you don’t think i’m _humerus_ anymore? that hurts my feelings, sweetheart.”

Fear morphs into anger at how trivial he’s treating this. “Shut up!” You seethe into the phone. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! The next text I receive from you, I’m taking straight to the police. Just stay away from me!”

There’s silence for a long moment. And then, that deep rumble of laughter again. This time it’s more menacing than it is enjoyable.

“heh. sorry, can’t do that sweetheart.”

All you see is red. “Fuck you!” You scream into the phone, and as soon as you hang up, you hurl it at the apartment wall. It’s a cheap model, so it breaks into pieces as soon as it makes contact with the drywall.

You have to get out of here. You have to pack a bag, hop on a plane, and get out of town. But go where? You don’t have any other friends who live in other cities. There’s no way you can afford a hotel for an extended amount of time, and the chances of finding an apartment or basement suite as cheap as this one are slim.

The image of a three-story dwelling with a wrap-around porch and faded vinyl siding creeps into your mind-your childhood home. Surely your parents will take you back if you explain the situation. They have to.

Little thought is put into what you fill your suitcase with. Only the bare essentials matter; everything else can be replaced over time.

There’s no time to clean. You don’t even bother locking the front door when you exit. The struggle to calm yourself so as not to attract attention from other tenants is unbearable.

The door that leads to the building’s main staircase is just at the opposite end of the hall.

_“Come on (y/n). You can do this. Breathe in for four seconds. One…Two…Three…Four…Hold your breath for seven seconds. One…Two…Three…”_

The door to the laundry room flies open as you start to pass by. It hits the wall behind it with a force that causes you to jump and lose track of your counting. Nobody is inside when you turn to look. The automatic lights that normally flicker on when that door opens remain off, leaving the space an empty, black void.

As you lift your leg to resume your steps, an arm wraps itself around your stomach from behind, and your body is pulled inside the room.

The door slams shut again, and you thrash and twist in your attacker’s grip. It’s tight, but you’re able to wrench the hand holding your keys free, and scramble to try to dig it into the motherfucker’s eyeball. To even just land a scratch would make you feel victorious.

An incredible strength hurls your body against the washing machine. Head hits metal with a sickening _thwack_. The daze that follows is hard to focus through, yet you try to stand. As soon as you are upright, you are thrown again, this time ending up with your back against a wall. No matter how you struggle, a phantom force pins your limbs and prevents movement. The fingers on the hand gripping your keys are pried open, forcing you to drop your makeshift weapon.

Helpless, you open your mouth to scream, but a hand claps overtop and muffles the sound. Immediately you work your jaw, praying that just the right twist or jerk will result in your teeth buried in this fucker’s skin.

But there’s no skin to sink your teeth into.

Only the hard scrape of enamel against bone.

“if you make another sound, i’ll kill everyone in this building.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still curious as to what Soul Color people think that y/n has. :)
> 
> I hope people enjoy this second addition, and as always, I appreciate critique and feedback regarding my writing! At this point, I don't have a set update schedule, but I hope to have the next one up soon!
> 
> Until next time!


	3. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your options are limited...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all who have read, commented, left kudos, and bookmarked this little story of mine!
> 
> Please remember to mind the tags and warnings for each chapter!
> 
> Warnings: A little bit of blood and violence, but nothing too graphic.

The red glow emitted from Sans’ glaring eye socket burns through your skin. Your blood turns to sludge that congeals inside your veins. Dampness stains your face, but you bite down on the inside of your cheek as hard as possible to prevent the escape of any whimpers or sobs.

There are so many people who live in this building. The landlord. The two girls three doors down who graduated high school last summer and have begun their new lives as college students. There’s a family who lives in the suite below you that just brought home a brand new baby boy.

None of them deserve to die today.

Sans won’t stop staring at you. You’ve never felt so small. His shoulders heave with heavy breaths, as if your brief altercation took some of the wind out of him. But even though you fought as hard as you could, there’s no sign of a single scrape or scratch on him.

You lost your grip on the suitcase during the struggle. It lies a few feet away, popped open. Contents are strewn all around, as though a hurricane tore through the room. Sans’ momentarily eyes the chaos. Clothes, personal hygiene products, wallet. His gaze holds on the small leather item, but he makes no move to retrieve it. If he doesn’t want money, what does he want with you?

“trying to go somewhere without me, sweetheart? it’s rude to leave your _soulmate_ without telling them first.”

The desire to shrink away grows at the sound of his low, threatening growl. Your head is still dizzy from hitting the washing machine. You don’t understand. What is he talking about? Soulmate?

“here’s what’s gonna happen,” Sans snarls, turning back and leaning in closer towards you. “you’re gonna put everything back in that case. then, we’re gonna walk outta this building just like any other people would. we’re not gonna talk to anyone, we’re not even gonna look at anyone. got it, gorgeous?”

He brings his mouth against your ear. Hot breath settles on your skin like a dense fog. It reeks of decomposing topsoil and meat. “we wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, would we?”

You frantically try to shake your head, and feel his mouth stretch into a wide, toothy grin against you. The reverberation of his laughter courses down your spine.

The taste of iron fills your mouth, and you feel the source start to dribble out. You bit your cheek too hard.

Sans drags the bones of an index finger down the center of your lips, smearing the blood. “been dreaming of these since that night at the club,” he murmurs. Flicking your bottom lip, he emits a satisfied groan when they seal back together with a soft ‘ _pop_.’ What kind of sick thrill is he getting from this?

Nevertheless, his mood seems lifted. Maybe nobody will get hurt if you try to reason with him at a soft volume.

“Please Sans…”

“ah, ah, ah.’ Bone presses harder against your mouth to silence you. “none of that. there’ll be plenty of time for begging once we’re back home.”

Home? Where was home? Where did he plan on taking you?

The force holding you to the wall weakens, and you collapse to the floor on your hands and knees. The impact barely registers as you snatch up the nearest items.

Repacking is made a million times more stressful with the drill of his eyes in your back, monitoring every move. When you hold up a pair of underwear, there’s a sound not unlike a purr. Bile threatens to rise in your throat as you steal a glance back.

A leer is plastered on his face. With your own burning, you shove the item as deep into the bag as it’ll go, buried underneath other clothes.

“hurry up, baby girl. we don’t need anyone coming in here and seeing us ‘airing out our dirty laundry.’”

Why had you never thought to take a self-defense class in your life? Your keys are kicked under the dryer, the gap too small for your fingers to try retrieving them. Little else in your possession is weapon worthy. Besides, he’s watching too closely to risk trying to pocket anything or taking him by surprise.

As you wrack your brain for some way, _any_ way, out of this situation, his words keep banging around and breaking up your train of thought.

Home. Begging. Soulmate.

_Soul…_

Your own throbs every time that word comes up. It’s now common knowledge that monsters have souls too, similar to those of humans. So far, there are only two known differences.

The first is in their shape. Monster souls resemble an upside down heart.

The second difference…is in…

_Their color…_

Monster souls are achromatic. So clean and white they could be considered pure, though only in the physical sense. If Sans’ actions are anything to go off of, the color can hardly be used as a judgement of character. Not enough research has been done yet to know exactly what, if anything, this shade represents. Is it possible for them to obtain color? Could you change it, like adding droplets of food dye to water? Make him realize the error of his ways the way you’ve done countless times with humans? 

But what if it doesn’t work? Or, worse, what if it does work, but has the opposite effect?

As you stand, grip tight on the handle of your suitcase, the laundry room door swings open and interrupts your rumination. Bright fluorescent light from cheap panel lighting illuminates the space and makes you wince.

Sans immediately steps to your side and wraps an arm around you. His hand on your shoulder squeezes tight in warning. You can already feel bruises forming under the grip.

A petite woman with salt and pepper hair and a face creased from a lifetime of laughter steps in carrying a pile of dirty linens. She gasps when she sees you, nearly dropping her basket. But her shock quickly morphs into a warm smile and a chuckle when recognition hits. “Oh, _(y/n)_! I’m sorry, I didn’t think anybody was in here! Should I come back later?”

Ms. Peterson. The sweet elderly woman who’s been the closest thing to a grandmother you’ve ever had. She loves to knit, and her apartment always has the scent of freshly baked goods wafting out from under her door. Goods that she’s always more than happy to share.

Sharing is second nature to her patient spirit. You’ve been so preoccupied lately that you still haven’t had a chance to thank her beautiful cyan soul properly for helping you pay your rent a few months back, when money was even more tight than usual.

Black spots creep into your vision. She’s waiting for a response. But you can’t say anything; you don’t even want to risk gaping your mouth open and giving Sans the wrong idea. What do you do?

“Dear, are you alright?” She takes a step closer, further scrutinizing. “You look positively ghastly! Are you feeling well?”

You don’t want her to die.

Sans pulls you closer to his side in an act of support “heh, she’s just in a bit of shock. got some bad news; a family emergency. i’m taking her to the airport.”

The lie leaves his lips effortlessly. How long has he been planning this? How many steps ahead is his brain calculated compared to yours?

Ms. Peterson’s face crumbles. “Oh, you poor dear.” Setting down her basket, she races forward and wraps you up in a hug. Sans’ arm is still around your shoulders, but the feeling of being enveloped by someone who honestly cares about you helps you breathe a little easier. The embrace is warm, not just because of the transferred body heat. Her soul thrums in her chest, glow intense with sympathy.

There are too many unknown variables with Sans’ soul. It would be too dangerous to risk experimenting. But this one…

Maybe…

If you can keep her this close just a little while longer…

You just have to make her realize what’s going on. Then she can go back to her apartment and phone for help. File a police report. Be your hero again.

It takes more than just envisioning a new color to change a soul. Intense concentration has to be poured into what that shade represents. Everything it stands for has to be your entire focus.

“sorry lady, but we don’t have time for this.”

Her wrinkles deepen, but she doesn’t resist as Sans rips you from her grasp and pushes past. You don’t dare look back.

A desperate internal prayer runs on repeat, in time with each footstep.

_Please…_

_Please…_

_Please…_

“Wait!”

Sans freezes. Ms. Peterson’s voice doesn’t sound shaky and frail like it did when she first came in. When he turns you around again, you see her face is much more solemn. There’s a growing electrical charge in the space between the three of you as she and Sans face off with narrowed eyes. Her hands unclench, and her gaze shifts. It softens along with her tone when she speaks again.

“Everything will be alright, _(y/n)._ I promise.”

The possibility of success ignites. The sincerity in her words makes you dare to believe them yourself. Reassurance builds in your chest at the trustworthiness pouring out of her.

It shatters when an ethereal bone drives itself through her abdomen.

The attack happens so suddenly, you barely register it at first. Ms. Peterson stumbles backward until her body hits the dryer. Quiet gasps escape her as she slides to the floor. Her soul surges out of her chest, several shades darker than when she first arrived.

Covered in growing hairline fractures, it splits into hundreds of sapphire shards that evaporate into nothingness as her chest ceases its rise and fall.

No. Fervent despair causes your knees to buckle. Your eyes can’t tear away from her still form. The bone has also vanished in thin air, leaving no trace of suspicious activity. Eyes slid shut as they are, she looks almost peaceful.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She’d put up no fight. All she’d done was try to provide comfort and support.

It wasn’t _fair_.

A gut-wrenching scream rips up your throat as you realize that doesn’t matter to your abductor. So you make no further attempts to silence your ragged, shrieking sobs as Sans pulls you up. Your body is so weak, the action is effortless, as easy as picking up a doll.

You’re growing lightheaded again, but agony prevents you from catching your breath as he wraps his arms around your chest.

“let’s go, sweetheart.”

Spiraling darkness finally overtakes everything as you slip away.


	4. New Surroundings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N definitely is not in Kansas anymore...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the tricky things with writing this right now is Sans' jokes. I'm definitely not used to writing things like that, so apologies if the ones I've thrown in don't make sense. I'm happy to explain if people aren't sure about them.
> 
> Thank you again for all of the support of this story, as this is a genre I have little to no experience writing in. I appreciate feedback and criticism in the comments if there's something that you think I could work on!
> 
> All that being said, this is NOT a funny chapter.  
> WARNING! This chapter has non-consensual touching/kissing and attempted sexual assault/rape. Please read with caution!

There’s a sunbeam passing through the curtains, hitting you in the face with laser-like intensity.

It tries to coax your eyes fully open, but despite however many hours you’ve spent asleep, your body still feels ragged. Five more minutes; then you’ll force yourself to get up.

That’s what you convince yourself as you grumble and shift positions in bed, yanking the white sheets over your head. The slip of satin between your fingertips feels so soothing.

But you don’t own white sheets, and you certainly can’t afford the luxury of satin.

Everything comes flooding back, and you shoot up with a cry, throwing the treacherous fabric over the side of the bed. You’re wearing the same t-shirt and jeans you were the day you tried to run, but your shoes are missing. It’s too dark to see the surroundings clearly. A worn out rug provides little protection against the cold floor under your feet as you stand to let more light in.

The unfamiliar space floods with sunlight when the curtains are pulled back. This new illumination allows you to see four wooden walls and a ceiling all stained dark. There’s little to take in. Aside from the bed, the only other pieces of furniture are a three-drawer dresser and a chest that a pirate might use to hold stolen treasure.

You immediately seek out the door and find it on the opposite corner of the room. Running towards it, you seize the handle, and wrench it to the right with all your strength.

It doesn’t twist. The knob barely even jiggles.

No. No, no, no! Panic building, you pull and yank in every direction you think to try. When that doesn’t work, you kick the door in frustration before turning your attention back to the window.

Vertical wrought iron bars curl into ornate spiraling designs that resemble ivy branches on the opposite side of the glass. Past that, all you can see is a wide expanse of grass that leads up to a forest of never-ending coniferous trees. Everything outside is skiffed with a light snowfall that must have begun sometime while you were asleep.

“HELP!” You slap your hands against the windowpane and scream. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass shards, but you refuse to quit. “God, please, someone _help me_!”

But even though you scream for what feels like hours, nobody comes.

The chest is too heavy to lift. It’s also padlocked shut, so you can’t look inside. You curse yourself for not having a spare bobby pin in your pocket. In desperation, you even run your hands through your hair, praying a spare somehow got lost in its thickness. No such luck.

While pulling at chunks to try to think of something else you can do, you notice the strands falling out are your natural blonde hue. There’s not even a hint of black dye.

Had Sans bathed you? The idea of him running his _filthy_ fingers over your body, touching you in your most private places while you were unconscious, sends a rush of repulsion through you.

The reminder that you’re still wearing the same outfit helps you refocus. But in the back of your mind a thought still lingers.

_He could have just redressed you afterward…_

The dresser. That’s the only thing in this room you haven’t tried to use yet. That’s what you force yourself to pay attention to. Maybe you can smash one of the drawers against the window. 

Starting at the top, you pull the drawers out as far as they’ll go. While they roll easily enough along their tracks, no amount of jostling will cause any of them to pop out.

You don’t even realize you’ve shoved the dresser until the heart pounding crash of it landing on its side hits you. The sound is exhilarating, and you let out a roar of frustration, kicking and stomping on the clothes that spill out. When all of your energy is spent, you stand atop the destruction panting heavily.

“hehehe. if you didn’t like the clothes, you could have just said so.”

You shriek and whirl to face the door. You’ve been making so much noise you hadn’t even heard it open. Sans leans casually against it, A relaxed grin is plastered on his skull, and his arms are folded across his chest. “was initially just gonna bring some of the stuff from your apartment, but it was all so _cheap_. no way i’m gonna let my soulmate walk around wearing trash. that would be _a crime against_ _linen_.”

The poor attempt of a joke flies over your head. When you don’t give him a reaction, his smile twitches. “nothing? aw, come on doll, _throw me a bone_ , would ya? I know that wasn’t one of my best, but you gotta give me something to go off of. don’t make me come over there and _spandex_ you.”

Immediately you dart so you’re on the opposite side of the bed as him. No way in _hell_ are you letting him touch you! The memory of your elderly neighbor lying against the dryer reminds you of his capabilities. “You killed Ms. Peterson. She was an innocent person!”

“she was a witness.”

You hate his lazy shrug when he says that. “Where are we?”

“home.”

 _Home_? This wasn’t home! This was a prison!

“Take me back. Right now!”

“i don’t think you’re really in a position to be making demands, sweetheart.”

You hate even more that he’s right. “You psychopath! I’m not your sweetheart or your soulmate! We barely even know each other!”

The lights in his eyes dim with resentment. “we would, if you hadn’t been so damn stubborn.”

What? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Sans starts to advance, and you scramble backward until you’re stuck in the corner of the room. When he looms over you, his fists are clenched, expression one of burning rage. If it were possible, smoke would be pouring out of him.

“you were _supposed_ to lose interest in that _worm_ after i told you he didn’t want you! instead, you just kept _pining_ over him!”

He raises a fist, and it flies forward. You throw your hands up to protect your face and brace for impact. But instead of feeling a punch, you hear the sharp crack of wood splintering to the right of your head. After it quiets, you hesitantly lower your shield, and look up.

There’s a sizeable hole in the wall behind you, raining down sawdust.

A cold sweat breaks over you, not just from the considerable structural damage. A text that now feels like it was sent a million years ago is replaying in your mind.

_“i’m in one of his lectures. overheard him talking to a couple buddies about you. he was laughing, saying how pathetic it was that you thought he’d have any interest in someone like you.”_

“You…you lied to me?”

At your whimper, his expression immediately softens. “it was for the best, sweetheart,” he coos. He reaches to brush a lock of matted hair out of your eyes. In doing so, he traces a growing bump, and you can’t hold back a wince of discomfort.

“sorry. sometimes i forget you humans are so fragile.” He places his lips over the injured area in a mockery of a kiss. “but you’ll see. he could never treat you the way you deserve to be treated. adored. desired.”

He’s kissing his way down the middle of your face after each word, starting with your forehead, and then your nose. Lust coats his voice as he leans forward once more. _“worshipped.”_

He kidnaps you, kills someone you care about, makes you believe someone else you care about hates your guts, and then has the _balls_ to say he can treat you right?

Rage drives your own hand forward. With his mouth on its way to making contact with yours, the result is a very satisfying slap across his face that extinguishes the light in his right socket. He freezes, mouth mid-pucker. With no desire to show mercy, you spit in his face, seething.

“You bastard! Take your fucking demented soul, and shove it up your pelvic cavity!”

You move to push past him, but blue light pours from Sans’ now empty socket. You find yourself encased in it. Without even being touched, your feet rise off the floor.

With absolutely no effort, your body is hurled atop the bed mattress. How did he do that?

“you humans are disgusting,” Sans snarls, climbing on top of you. You swing your arms and kick, but he kneels on top of your legs and pins your arms above your head with a single hand. “filling your lives with shit. chemicals in your processed foods, drugs to alter your minds and bodies. all that crap you pump into the environment. fucking anyone who just so happens to look at you the right way. it separates you from your soul. makes it impossible to understand when it’s trying to tell you something.”

“Sans, no, please—”

“i’ll make you see.” His free hand works at the zipper on your jeans. “then you’ll understand why I did everything. _then_ you’ll listen.”

“I’m a virgin!”

Sans’ hand freezes, hovering over your groin. He stares at you with an incredulous look on his skull. “what?”

You don’t know why you decided to shout that. Maybe you thought if he knew you had no experience, he would lose interest. But now you can’t stop babbling, courage gone. “Please Sans, don’t do this! I’m a virgin, I swear!”

As you repeat this over and over again, Sans remains frozen atop you. Hiccupping sobs choke your words. If he thinks you won’t be a good lay, then maybe he’ll think there’s no reason to keep you. Maybe he’ll let you go.

Or maybe he’ll kill you for disappointing him.

“Oh, sweetheart… darling… _precious_.”

Kisses are now being peppered all over your face and in your hair. As you work at controlling your sobs, trying to understand what’s happening, Sans pauses and stares down at you. He sounds relieved, possibly even elated.

“you _were_ listening to your soul. it was telling you to wait for me, and you did. you just didn’t realize it.”

Releasing your arms, he scoops you up against his chest and continues to kiss your head. The grip of his hug is too tight, but you barely register it as you struggle to make sense of what’s just happened.

You haven’t repulsed him. If anything, you’ve made him want you more.

“we still have to get rid of the rest of the toxins in your body, but that’s an easy fix. And after you’re completely purified, we can complete the soul bond and consummate it.” Despair grips you as he lifts your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them. “Oh sweetheart, it’s gonna be beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already don't have a consistent updating schedule plan, and with the holidays approaching, I feel it may be even more so. But I hope everyone has a happy holidays, and thank you all again so much!


	5. Contract in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N learns more about her new surroundings and what Sans expects from her in this twisted fantasy he's construed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! It's a little long and late for Christmas, but here's a gift for the season! I'm having such fun with this story; I can't wait to see where the new year takes it! I really hope people enjoy! People have been so sweet and supportive of it so far; I can't thank you all enough! Please enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Stalking, a panic attack, some self-harm and blood

Your stomach finally growls, forcing Sans to pause his disgusting display of false affection.

“heh, guess you’re probably hungry.” He rubs the back of his skull sheepishly. “you were out for so long, i was beginning to think you’d never wake up. thought maybe i’d hafta give you a true love’s kiss.”

You recoil in disgust, and everything flickers.

Now you are both in a hallway, lit by a single uncovered lightbulb on the ceiling. There is a door to your right, and two more further down the hall. Two are kept shut by a combination of steel chain locks and deadbolts. The end of the hall breaks into a more open space.

“may as well give you a tour of the place. built it just for you.” Sans pulls a key ring out of his coat pocket and opens the closest door to you. As it swings, déjà vu strikes.

It’s the bedroom you woke up in. You’re on the opposite side of the door.

You don’t remember moving. You don’t even think you blinked.

“best place to start is always the beginning, right sweetheart?” You hear the smile in Sans’ tone, but can’t rip your eyes away from the sight of the bed and window. Your feet are frozen in place.

Telekinesis and teleportation, along with his physical strength. He’s like a supervillain out of the comic books. Untouchable. A god.

No. You can’t let yourself think like that. Even Superman had kryptonite.

Sans must have been trying to get your attention, because suddenly you’re hoisted into his arms and carried down the hall. He holds you the way a knight might after sweeping a rescued princess off her feet. You feel snatched by a greedy, treasure-hoarding dragon. Each step forward is filled with the dread of a final march down death row.

The unlocked door is a bathroom. Sans spends little time there, clearly not finding it important. But when you approach the second locked door, he snickers. “this was probably my favorite room until you showed up.”

It should just be an ordinary office. There’s a desk with a computer and a chair with wheels poised in front of it. Two bookshelves are filled with thick hardcover textbooks with titles written in a language you aren’t familiar with.

But every square inch of blank wall is covered by tacked up photos of you.

Some you recognize as ones you have been brave enough to post on your social media accounts over the years. But the majority are candid shots. You’re captured in hundreds of unplanned poses, in hundreds of different angles. Some look like they were taken at quite a distance, like one of you stepping onto a bus. Others look like the camera was mere feet away, like one of you fast asleep in what was your old bed.

The urge to tear them all off the drywall and rip them to shreds is strong. But the worst ones are the shots in which you aren’t wearing anything, or look like you were captured in the process of changing.

“nice, right? and now i got the real thing.” Sans hums in sick pleasure as he pulls a glossy photo off the wall and hands it to you. “this one’s my favorite.”

It’s you, Jessie, and Amy all sitting around a late night campfire. Their heads are scratched out with black permanent marker, but you recognize them by the strappy sundresses you’re all wearing. Your head is tipped back, frozen in unbridled laughter. Around the corners, the photo is blurry, as though the lens was peeking through foliage.

You don’t remember what you were laughing about, but you know exactly when this was taken. The three of you had decided to go camping at one of the nearby lakes for the last weekend before university started again. It had been a wild, wonderful end to summer, filled with swimming, exploring, and, as pictured, bonding around campfires. This was at least two months before you’d met Sans at the club.

_How long has he been watching me for?_

It seems like just when one shocking revelation comes along, another one pops up to slap you in the face before you can recover. Sans’ conversation grows into a faded mumble as you try to piece everything together. You’re still staring at the picture, grip tight as that of a python when his voice becomes clear again.

“so, what do you think? my bro was pretty shocked when he saw it. said he never thought i could work so hard in my life. maybe i’ll bring him by to meet you some day, _if_ you behave…hey, sweetheart, you listening to me?”

“What?” The heavy smell of cooked meat hits your nose, and you force yourself to tear your eyes up to face him. Both of you are seated on a sofa with a tacky yellow flower pattern in what appears to be a living room. Behind Sans, the kitchen connects directly to this area. Disorientation is making it impossible to keep track of time; you don’t even remember being put down. But he must have been in the kitchen for a while, because now he has food.

You follow a hot dog as he waves it back and forth in front of your face. He laughs when your stomach gurgles again. “boy, more scatterbrained than usual today, aren’t cha? go ahead, take a bite.”

The smell is heavenly to your starving stomach, and your taste buds quiver in longing. But you force yourself to hold back. Anything he’s prepared is dangerous territory. What if it’s drugged or poisoned?

You lurch off the couch and bash a leg against a rectangular coffee table covered in water rings. There’s more furniture in this room than the bedroom. An old TV stand leans against the wall opposite the sofa, with a boxy TV screen positioned on top. Another bookshelf is filled with dusty novels and an assortment of games beside a fireplace. Along the wall partially separating the kitchen from the living room, an upright piano beckons.

The last time you played piano was when you were a teenager, when your parents forced you into continuing lessons in a desperate attempt to tame your wild side. However, you’re desperate for a little familiarity. Everything feels like it’s closing in around you, and it’s unbearably claustrophobic. You press down on a key, and an out of tune note hits your soul.

“would you believe i found that in the dump? just needs a little tuning. you used to play piano, right?”

_How long has he been watching me for?_

The palpitations in your chest accelerate as the question repeats. Their pace cuts every breath short. You can’t remember any of the breathing exercises you taught yourself to try. Desperate for something to ground you, your hands start intensely scratching along your arms, eager for the pain.

Sans quickly stands as long white marks form on your skin; some of them go so deep in spots beads of blood bubble up. “sweetheart, you need to relax.”

“I can’t relax!” Panic makes your voice come out angry. “I can’t…even…fucking _breathe_!”

Fresh air. You need it; the surrounding stale atmosphere is suffocating. A nearby window mocks you with the vision of outdoors. There’s no time to waste trying to just slide it open. So you hoist the piano bench, and hurl it, desperation bringing a sudden bout of strength that won’t last long.

The window doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t even crack.

Shatterproof glass. Locks. Even the fucking fireplace has a protective screen in front of it to prevent you from climbing up the chimney. You’re trapped.

Gasping and choking, you curl into a ball on the floor. Your body shakes so hard, even your teeth chatter. None of this feels real. Why is this happening to you? Surely no sin you’ve committed is so severe that this could be warranted as an acceptable punishment!

Sans sets his hot dog on the coffee table. As he starts moving forward, you curl tighter, spewing apologies for your second outburst. A repeat of what almost happened in the bedroom is sure to be coming. This time, you’re positive Sans won’t hold back. Actions always have consequences, whether you like them or not.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he crouches in front of you. “look, i know this may seem a little overwhelming at first; it’s gonna take us both some time to adjust to this new living situation. why don’t you come sit back down on the sofa, and have a bite to eat while i clean those cuts? it’ll help.”

His gentle coaxing infuriates you. This is not something to become accustomed to. Adjustment means that all those involved had a say in the decision made to make a change. All he wants from you is conformity.

A bony hand moves to grip your arm. The contact burns, and you jerk away. “Don’t touch me! Just give me some space to _breathe_!”

Sans frowns. “look sweetheart, i ain’t letting the food go cold. either you eat it, or i will. and i’m not making any more.”

“Fine!” You snap. You’d rather starve than risk eating whatever _shit_ he’s cooked. But someone has to eventually notice you’re missing. Your friends. The university. Hell, maybe it’ll be your landlord who saves you. “I don’t care. Someone will find me.”

Sans pulls his appendage back. “don’t _bite the hand_ that feeds you, darling. unless you want the person attached to that hand to bite back later.” He taps his chin with a bone claw. “what about…a trade? for every bite you take, i’ll answer a question. if you eat the whole thing…i’ll grant you three wishes.”

It sounds like something out of a fairytale, except this is the dark and twisted version that was written and used to teach children valuable lessons before society turned it into a heart-warming love story for the movies. But curiosity sparks inside you. Three wishes? What the hell does that even mean?

“obviously you can’t ask for anything stupid, like to leave. but whatever you want, within reason, i’ll do it.”

It sounds easy. Suspiciously easy. This time, when Sans floats the hot dog in your direction, you pick it up out of the air. His grin widens when you take a small, hesitant bite, followed by more that help stop your trembling.

The meat is chewy, and the bun sticks to the roof of your mouth, but you barely taste the meal as you slowly eat. Your ears are too perked, listening carefully for any signs of tricks. He’s lied to you before, and deals are slippery things. You know better than to sign or agree to anything without knowing every single detail. When the food is gone and your hands are steadier, the first question to ask is constructed.

“How do you benefit from this? The wishes?”

“you mean besides gaining the knowledge that my soulmate is happy?” Sans laughs heartily. “the soulmate bond is a complicated process. first, a dominant soul has to choose the soul that will be its match. as we both know, this has already happened for us. but before the ceremony to officially bind them, the souls have to come to an agreement. think of this step like a contract. both individuals involved decide what they want from the other in the relationship. what i expect is simple. i wanna be able to come home from work to a freshly cooked meal, clean house, and a kiss hello with no questions asked. i don’t know what you want from me.”

He’s so wrapped up in this perverted fantasy he’s built that he expects you to be an obedient little trophy wife. The idea is so ridiculous, if any other person had expected it from you, it would be laughable. But arguing or fighting with him right now is pointless. It’s just going to make him angry, and when he’s angry, he’s dangerous. For now, it’s best to play along.

“And…and what if someone doesn’t comply with what’s agreed upon? What if part of the agreement gets broken?”

“if it’s accidental, nothing. but if it’s intentional…” An ominous pause sends chills through you. “monster law deems the partner can punish the deal breaker in whatever way they see fit. i’ve heard some monster souls have actually shattered, because they broke a part of the agreement that they considered crucial. don’t know if that’s true for humans though.”

He’s already proven himself duplicitous; to trust him now seems idiotic. But maybe he takes this soul bond stuff so seriously that he’ll actually hold true to his word this time. As long as he has you here in this cabin, there’s no reason for him to renege.

What he doesn’t know can’t hurt you. Just because you say you agree doesn’t mean that’ll stop _you_ from going behind his back the first chance you get.

“Okay.” After much deliberation, you nod in agreement. Sans gets up and goes to the office. Shortly after, he teleports back with a pen and pad of paper. He writes his demand first: _Y/N agrees to be devoted to her soulmate and dedicated to the role she is meant to fulfill in this relationship._ You’re appreciative of his language; surely there will be plenty of opportunities to find loopholes in this wording.

Your requests are harder to think up. The only things you truly want are to go home, and never be touched by Sans again. These are desires you immediately know he won’t agree to. He’s already told you not to ask to leave. Despite the fact that you now have proof he can move things with his mind, he seems unable to resist finding opportunities to physically touch you any chance he can get.

Your first decided request finally comes to mind, thought up by the gradually fading feeling of suffocation. “The doors to all rooms in this cabin need to be left unlocked. If this truly is a place made for me, I need to be able to wander around.” You hold out your bleeding arms. “If I’m ever locked in one room again, this will get a lot worse.”

Sans nods and writes the request down. “i don’t want you hurting yourself, sweetheart.”

The next one comes to you a little easier. “My second request is that you will not harm any of my friends. Including An—.”

The red light in Sans’ socket flares, and his empty socket turns darker. You clear your throat before the whole name can be spoken aloud. “You know who I mean. Don’t hurt any of them. Not because I still want them.” The lie sits heavy in your stomach, but you press on. “I just want them to have the chance to find their own soulmates and live their own lives, without me. Even if you don’t think they were good for me, they deserve a second chance to be good to other people, right?”

Sans grumbles, but eventually relents and puts that one down.

“And finally…” you brace yourself before you finish this sentence. “No sex before the time of consummation after the ceremony.”

Sans sputters, but before he can verbally protest, you hold up a hand. “I told you that I’m a virgin. Don’t you think the consummation will be that much more special for the both of us if it’s my first time?”

He’s been acting so lustful towards you, this is a condition you aren’t sure he’ll be willing to agree to. You don’t plan on staying here long enough to undergo the ceremony. But if you can convince him to hold off until after a ceremony that you are going to work damn hard to ensure never happens, you’ll count that as a personal victory.

This is the first time you feel relief at the sight of his sleazy smile returning. “heh, guess you’re right sweetheart. knowing it’s the first time will make that cherry all the more _sweet_ to pop.”

He’s distracted by the action of stroking your wounded arms for a few minutes, but eventually writes down your final condition. Once it’s done, he signs his name at the bottom, and passes you the pen. You’ve never signed something so slowly as this deal with the devil.

You expect that to be the end of it. But next, Sans holds his hands in front of his chest. A look of intense concentration crosses his face, and a white, glowing heart slides out of his chest. Guiding it through the air with his hands, he moves his soul so it hovers just above the paper. Then, it lowers, so just the rounded parts of the heart shape touch the sheet. The words in Sans’ terms and conditions light up, then go back to normal as his soul returns to his body.

He gives you no advance warning before he removes your soul. An abrupt feeling of cold fills your chest, and the intensity worsens the further it gets from your body. Sans makes the same hand motions with your delicate soul, and this time your words light up.

You watch the letters in your name momentarily flash and change color so they match the shade of your soul. As you do, you feel as though you haven’t just signed your life away.

You feel like you signed your soul away too.


	6. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hatred is building inside of Y/N, but when she tries to take action, she will be reminded that for every action, there is a consequence...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 6! I have returned from holidays, and so was able to complete another chapter in the thrilling story of Y/N! A fair warning, after this chapter, things will get even worse than they already are. But who knows, maybe that's what you're waiting for.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support! I can't wait to see what people think of this one; please, if you have any comments or critiques, share them! I love reading the comments I get on this story; they really encourage me to keep going. :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Non-consensual touching, abuse (physical and some verbal), non-consensual drugging.

The first night, when Sans makes you share the same bed, you don’t sleep at all.

After he covers your scratches in healing balm and encases them in bandages, he takes you by the arm and moves to guide you to the bedroom. Your heels dig into the floorboards.

“I…I think I’d be more comfortable on the couch.” You try to smile, but can’t quite force it. “J…just until I gather my bearings. New place and all.”

Sans’ eyes darken, and your lips seal up under his glower.

“come to bed, sweetheart. _now_.”

It’s the longest night you’ve ever experienced, his arms tied around your waist and face buried in the crook of your neck. Hyperfocus makes it so every time there’s a strange creak or thump in the building, your body jolts. Getting up is impossible, as even if you just twitch, his rope-like grip tightens. 

At any point, he could wake up and decide he doesn’t want to wait to fuck you. While you plan to fight with everything you’ve got if that happens, you’re not stupid enough to believe that will deter him. Sans doesn’t _try_ to do things; he just does them. But that’s not the point. The point is to make it clear to him you don’t want it. You don’t want any of this.

Thankfully, nothing happens, but even with winter’s lengthened period of darkness, the sun still rises far too quickly. Your eyes are bloodshot, and your muscles are sore from being kept tense all night. If Sans knows you didn’t sleep, he doesn’t comment on it. He seems content to feed you more hotdogs and lie next to you on the couch, watching TV all day.

During this time, when his attention is diverted by pre-recorded shows, you allow yourself to nap in brief microsleeps. It’s disconcerting that no matter how much distance you put between the two of you to start off, every time you wake, you find yourself positioned so your head is on his shoulder or in his lap. But your clothing remains intact, and aside from his usual stroking against your skin and lingering kisses, his touches don’t advance. Still, you can only assume he’s keeping his word.

Lack of proper sleep keeps you disoriented, but the one thought you force your muddled brain to hold onto is the idea that someone will find you. It runs on repeat, the sharpest detail in your blurry dreams. When you lie down at the start of the next night, you whisper it aloud and don’t even realize it until you hear Sans laughing beside you. The mocking in the shaking of his head as he squeezes you closer to him fuels the hatred that burns in your core.

The next morning, you wake up alone.

The only indication Sans was there is a diamond encrusted wristwatch and a note left on the indent in his pillow.

‘ _a little something to keep you thinking of me while i’m away. have dinner ready for 5pm.’_

Underneath the sentiment is a list of other chores you assume he wants completed by the end of the day. It’s almost domestic.

You loathe it.

The first thing you try to do with this temporary solitude is smash the watch with one of the textbooks in Sans’ office. Fuck his ‘gifts.’ Fuck thinking about him at all! The only thing you want to think about during this time of limited freedom is how the hell you’re going to get out.

But he must have enchanted the watch with his damned magic, as you can’t even create a scratch in the face. Visibility reinforces remembrance, so you hurl it behind the bedroom dresser to forget.

If you were held at gunpoint and forced to give Sans one compliment to survive, the one word you could use to describe him is thorough. The computer has no internet capabilities, something you discover when you try to send an electronic cry for help. He’s only supplied you homemade bars of soap made from all natural ingredients for cleaning. There are no industrial cleaning materials or chemicals to corrode door locks or explode to blow up an entrance.

The kitchen isn’t much better. All knives and other appliances he must deem ‘dangerous’ are in locked drawers. The dishware is plastic. The temptation to create a fire on the stove and burn the cabin down is overwhelming, but with no doors or windows that will open, you’d burn to death or die from smoke inhalation.

It’s only when you pause to slump into a kitchen chair to regather your thoughts that it occurs to you the rooms are losing natural light from outside. The growing darkness weighs heavy on you.

_What time is it now?_

_How long have you been doing this for?_

_How much longer do you have before Sans returns?_

There are no other clocks or devices in this cabin to tell time. Not even the stove has the usual digital clock on its top. Newfound alertness drives you back to the bedroom, and you shove the dresser out of place to retrieve the wrist watch. When you’re staring down at your wrist, and the two little hands taunt you with the knowledge that you have little more than an hour until 5pm, something clicks.

This is not just something Sans hopes to use to gain your affection. It’s yet another method of control.

The chores are done to minimal completion, and dinner is prepared in a frantic frenzy. You’ve never been that good at cooking, and it’s made even more challenging with the limited supplies you have to work with. If the decrease in utensils wasn’t enough, the amount of stocked food is abysmal. The cupboards are almost bare, with no canned products and very few boxes, aside from ingredients required for fresh baking. The fridge isn’t empty, but its main contents include bottles of vitamin water for you, and an entire shelf dedicated to bottles of ketchup. You don’t even like ketchup. The bottom shelf holds bloody containers of unlabeled, raw ground meat that make your stomach churn.

Still, you have to put something together. If Sans returns and isn’t satisfied…

Only five minutes remain when you scoop the meal onto two paper plates. The noodles are still crunchy, and the few hand crushed tomatoes and ketchup you mixed to create a sauce is chilled in the middle. But it’s finished. Well, almost.

You’re just about to check the meatballs when a rustle and succession of little clicks, like claws tapping against the wood floor, catches your ear. When you turn, a wood mouse sits under the kitchen table. A crumb, most likely a broken piece of spaghetti, is in its paws. With every nibble, its whiskers and ears twitch, sensing for danger.

Sans didn’t allow you to watch the news yesterday. He had insisted the world is a dark, depressing place, and that you didn’t have to worry about all of the terrible things going on ‘out there.’ So this is the first real proof there’s still life outside these walls that you’ve seen since your arrival. Meatballs forgotten, you crouch on the floor, staring intently as the mouse continues to eat, without any cares at this moment.

You don’t scream until a pink slipper flies over your head and crashes into a spot a hair’s breadth away from where the mouse sits.

At the close call, it forgets the rest of its meal and dashes off behind the couch. You pounce to your feet and run after it. When you push the sofa away from the wall, the creature’s entrance and escape method is revealed: a rotted hole, barely the size of your fist. Little teeth marks ring the edges, and the smell of urine and droppings seeps through.

You get back on your knees and press your eye against the opening, looking as far as you can into the insulation. Yearning to be so small that you could traverse the tunnel and come out on the other side is powerful.

A great explorer’s name is trying to form in your mind when Sans snatches you by the wrist. He yanks you to your feet and holds you so your faces are mere inches apart.

“why didn’t you kill it?” he seethes, clearly not in a good mood.

You wince at the force on your wrist and the venom in his voice. “It…it wasn’t doing any harm.”

“it was eating our food. if it eats all our food, there won’t be any left for us. do you _want_ to starve?”

Frantically, you jerk your head side to side after he starts shaking you by the wrist. “N…no…”

For a moment, Sans just stands there, fuming. Finally, he shoves you away, releasing you, and popping out of existence. Moments later, he reappears with a bottle marked with a skull and crossbones. You inspect it cautiously when he hands it to you. The label reads _Rodenticide_.

“use this. if i see that thing alive in this house again, i’ll fucking blast it.”

Before you can agree, Sans turns and stomps to the kitchen table. “D…dinner’s almost ready,” you quiver out, but the only response he gives back is a grunt.

Bastard. Steadying your breath, you twist the protective cap off the bottle, and sniff. The chemical smell burns the inside of your nose, and you quickly lean away. The idea of using this on an innocent creature that, just like you, is doing what it can to survive, repulses you.

The idea of using it on something that deserves it however…

“Hey Sans? D…do we have any…um…parsley?”

Sans lifts his head up; he’d had it buried under his arms and resting on the table. “parsley?”

“Yeah, i…it’s a green plant that makes little rosettes humans use to decorate their meals sometimes. You can eat it too; it’s got lots of minerals that humans need to stay healthy.” You step closer, confidence growing. You stifle it by looking down at the floor and shuffling your feet. “I…I thought it might be nice to make this meal a little fancier. You know…since it’s our first official one that I made as your…you know…”

You still can’t force yourself to call him your soulmate, but he seems to understand what you’re trying to imply. His face scrunches in thought. “might have some in the greenhouse,” he mutters. As you’re filing away the information that he has a greenhouse somewhere, without warning, he vanishes again.

You have no idea how much time you have before he comes back again. Quickly, you dash into the kitchen and dump half the open bottle of rat poison overtop San’s plate of food, and watch as it seeps into the sauce and noodles. The rest you pour into the pot of tomato sauce, and stir vigorously to combine the compounds together.

Just as you’re stowing the empty bottle under the kitchen sink, he reappears, a bundle of clipped parsley in his fist. “this it?”

You take it, and plant a sprig on top of each of your meals. This time, your smile feels more genuine. A beautiful garnish to celebrate more than he will ever know. “Thank you. That’s perfect.”

The meatballs are burned in spots due to the earlier interruption, but despite all that’s wrong with the meal, Sans shoves food into his mouth. You pick at your own, considerably smaller portion, as you watch him shovel each forkful like he hasn’t eaten in months. And you wait.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t have time to make a desert.” You grimace as Sans even licks his plate once he’s finished. He scoots his chair beside yours, and leans forward to grant you a sloppy kiss. At the last second you turn your head so a smear of tomato sauce is left on your cheek. You promptly wipe it off with a napkin to prevent the poison from leeching into your own skin.

Sans doesn’t take offense though; with all the kisses he’s forced on you so far, you’ve never allowed his lips to touch yours. So this isn’t anything he isn’t used to.

“heh, no problem darling. i’ll just have to find something else _sweet_ to nibble on later. i’m sure the _pasta-bilities_ are endless.”

_Not on your life, jackass._

His mood does seem to have improved with a meal now in his non-visible stomach. He cradles your chin in a hand, and turns your face so you’re looking at him rather than your food.

“look, you’re probably angry that i had to be so rough earlier. it’s just…you need to learn. we can’t go wasting what we’ve got. you aren’t super familiar with monster history, are you?”

This self-righteous asshole can’t even say the words, ‘I’m sorry.’ You have no idea how long he has before the poison starts taking effect; hopefully it kicks in soon. But as long as he’s alive, the longer he talks for, the less he’ll be trying to molest you.

“No, I’m not.”

He snorts. “typical. humans never care about anything but themselves.” Before he can start off on a rant, he redirects his attention. “anyway, hundreds of years ago, monsters and humans got into this big war. it was a real long and bloody thing, and in the end, monsters were imprisoned underground.

“you’ve probably never been down there. but it’s a puny area compared to the great big world above. and even after so much fighting and death, there were a lot of us remaining. so, needless to say, resources were scarce. a cause for celebration was a day when a human would fall down from the top of the mountain. monsters would compete to see who could get to them first.

“we had to resort to unspeakable things in order to survive.” Sans grips the hole in his skull and pulls hard. “we killed each other to survive. hell, we even ate…” he pauses and finishes his sentence with a cough. “well, i’ll spare you the _meaty_ details for now. don’t want you losing your—”

His sentence is cut off by a series of heavier coughs. His ribcage rattles as the ragged sound forces itself up his throat and out. Blue droplets spatter across the tabletop.

You don’t even flinch as his chair tilts backward, and he falls to the kitchen floor with a crash. The coughing shifts into wheezing, and he clutches his throat as his body heaves. Finally, his body sags, and his eye sockets flutter shut.

Was it really that easy? Hesitantly, you nudge his body with your foot; it doesn’t respond. You pull his eyelids back, and gape as they hold open, black sockets staring up at nothing. Manic glee swells inside as you check his wrist bone and the side of his neck for a pulse.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

His soul is still floating in his chest cavity, but you know nothing about monster physiology. Maybe it deteriorates slowly, like any other organ.

“Good riddance, motherfucker,” you hiss as you dig through his pockets and pull out your prize: the keyring.

At the front door, the keys rustle and clink together as you shove different ones in the lock. Your fingers are only now starting to tremble, and in all the excitement, you drop the ring on the floor.

When you bend to retrieve it, just as you’re about to touch the cold metal, it’s engulfed in blue. It levitates off the ground and shoots between your legs, towards some unknown destination behind you.

‘i knew your cooking was bad, darling. but damn, you didn’t think it would actually poison me, did you?”

No. Disbelief crashes into you. You’re hearing things, hallucinating. He ate half a bottle of rat poison; he can’t be alive! You saw him die!

But there he is, standing behind you, using blue magic to levitate the keys back into his possession. The same smirk is still painted across his face as he takes in your gaping jaw and popping eyes. “pretty good acting, right? if only Mettaton was still alive. that bucket of bolts would have been impressed.”

He stalks closer, and grabs you by the collar of your shirt. “here’s the thing about soul contracts, darling. once they’re signed, those words connect us. i could feel your betrayal brewing in my soul all day, sweetheart, and that’s not a good feeling. i had to see if it was genuine, or just a phase.”

A test. That’s all this had been. Another damn test.

“looks like you need that purification more than i thought.”

Your blood runs cold. As he drags you back to the kitchen, you reach out for the walls, corners, anything else you could latch on to so you can stop moving. But he’s going too fast for you to get a good grip. You try to pry his finger bones loose from your clothes, or to break his ulna and radius. Curses fly from your lips in gut wrenching screams, but when he shoves you so you’re bent over the kitchen table it’s like he can’t even hear you.

“ _No_!” In all your rebellious years, you’ve never said no so much in your life. His elbow digs into your back, making it hard to breathe. Snot and tears clog up your mouth and nose, causing you to choke on your words. “You sick son of a bitch, I don’t want this! No!”

Sans rubs his free hand up and down your back, making shushing sounds. “this is how it’s meant to be, sweetheart. our bond was fate, written in the stars. once this process is over, you’ll see. everything will be made clear to you. don’t be scared; i’ll be with you every step of the way. through it all.”

He’s trying to calm you down, but all he’s doing is riling you up. As you let out another blood-curdling scream, there’s a two-second pinch on the back of your neck. The scream dissolves into sobs, and you try to fight the instant muscle weakness. But colors swim together in your vision. This poison is stronger than the hate in your system, and forces you to succumb.


	7. *Purification*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans told Y/N he was going to do it. He never warned her what would be involved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter has explicit non-consensual sexual content in the second half. PLEASE mind the warnings and tags!!!  
> I am not used to writing this kind of thing, so if anyone has critique on how to improve, I would love to hear it.   
> This is in no way a fun chapter, so it feels weird to say I hope you like it. But thank you for reading, and for those who take the time to give kudos, hits, bookmarks, and comments, you are all greatly appreciated!
> 
> So, without further ado, here's Chapter 7!
> 
> Tags/Warnings for this chapter: Drug withdrawal/detox symptoms (Seizures, vomiting, nausea, etc), forced, non-consensual sexual activity, including kissing, fondling, vaginal fingering, biting, and dirty talk, psychological/emotional abuse, very negative thinking from y/n, mention of scars

It starts with tremors.

They begin as minor tics in the fingers and toes. But over time, they spread and turn into brutal, uncontrollable muscle spasms. You’re powerless to stop them as you jerk and thrash where you lay. Every inch of your body is taken over. Each time they subside, dampness sticks your soiled clothes to your clammy skin. The contact burns, but you ache too much to move. Prayers don’t help, not that you’re in a coherent enough state of mind to even form a comprehensive thought.

When the seizures cease for good, your head pounds. Nausea grips your stomach; the vengeful organ is determined that everything inside of you must be out. When you finally stop spitting up stomach acid, someone tries shoving a forkful of food into your mouth. Everything around you is fuzzy; you can’t make out who it is. But before you even finish chewing, you spit it back up and dry-heave.

“come on hun. you need to have something.” A cup of cold water is pressed to your lips. With what little energy you have, you try to drink, but even that won’t go down. Swallowing hurts too much, and your stomach retaliates against what does slide through your esophagus. The liquid spews out of your dry, cracked lips, and an agonized mewl slips out in defeat.

“i know sweetheart, i know…” A hand runs through your greasy hair. It feels like every individual strand connects to your nervous system, as electricity shoots across your scalp. You whine, and the voice shushes you softly. “it’s okay; you’re doing so well. just a little while longer. don’t fight the process.”

The speaker’s name is fighting to break through the mind fog, but it’s still too thick. He’s hunched right in front of you, but your eyes refuse to cooperate. A dampened instinct tells you to fight against their touch, but exhaustion pulls harder. You sink into it, and slip into a sleep plagued with nightmares of trying to run, but going nowhere.

When you wake, the world is still a blurred mess of color. The only things in focus are the shapes of the new crowd hovering around you, clear as can be.

After being so lost in pain, you feel found as Jessie, Amy and Andrew step forward. Their souls shine like jewels, ruby, amethyst, and emerald. They’ve never glowed so brightly. You knew that someone would find you! Your own soul sings, and you try to push yourself up to hug them. But your body is still so heavy. You can’t even lift your head.

None of your friends extend a hand to help you up. They all continue to stand and stare down at you. Nobody smiles.

“You’re pathetic.”

Confusion obliterates your joy and relief as the frost in Amy’s tone hits. Her words resonate in the room, putting your soul’s beating out of sync with that of your heart. Jessie chimes in next.

“Why were we ever friends with you? You’re worthless. Can’t even help yourself. You deserve this.”

Jessie and Amy continue to repeat the last three words as Andrew scowls at you. “How could you possibly think I’d ever fall in love with someone like you? Stupid bitch. You deserve this.”

Ms. Peterson speaks next, jabbing an arthritis-riddled finger in your direction. “What happened to me is your fault. You deserve this.”

The four of them continue to chant as they step back, but when the next two people step forward, everything goes momentarily silent.

Two pairs of ocean blue eyes, the very eyes the world has always insisted you inherited, gaze down at you. You faced this expression so many times when you were younger that you recognize the disappointment immediately. Shame floods your chest, tightening it. Each breath taken feels like the last one, but never is.

You just want this to be over.

Your father’s mouth quirks, the way it used to when you were all seated at the dinner table and the bottle of scotch he’d opened wasn’t up to his standard. Your mother purses her lipstick covered lips, and she crosses her arms over her chest, made perfect from multiple rounds of plastic surgery. Her expensive dress sits tight against her body, accentuating every curve without a single wrinkle or bunched up bit of fabric. Even their shoes are polished to a glossy shine. Your inadequacy is overwhelming.

“We gave you everything,” your mother hisses in disdain. “No expense was spared to give you the best life possible. Did you ever thank us for the opportunities? No. You fought us every step of the way, like the ungrateful wretch you are. You deserve this.”

You can smell the acrid cigar smoke on your father’s breath when he speaks. “You could have been a lawyer. Instead, you threw it all away. I wish you had never been born. You deserve this.”

At first, when you were younger, you had tried to be their perfect little girl. You had attended the social events, tried the teams and clubs they signed you up for. But none of it had felt like it fit. Your soul didn’t soar with accomplishment the way it did when you held a paintbrush, or wrote a poem in the middle of the night, huddled under your blankets with a flashlight and a notebook. But none of that had been good enough. They wanted you to be their kind of happy, their purple souls encouraging them to continue to push. 

You had pushed back, first with angry words, and later with quieter rebellions. Dyed hair and piercings. Drugs and alcohol. And then, when you were older, walking away and never looking back. Yet even while pursuing what you loved, you hadn’t felt whole.

“You don’t deserve to carry on our family’s name. You are not our daughter. You deserve this.”

Every time those words are uttered, you fall apart a little more. You should try to change their soul colors, to make them green, or cyan, to make them understand. But for the life of you, you can’t remember what the colors stand for. In desperation, you try to focus on the shapes in front of you, and just imagine different colors. But of course, even though they’re clearly there, right in front of you, you can’t catch hold; just as you start to feel a possible connection, they flicker and flash, and you lose it.

You’d give it all up and become a lawyer like your family wanted if you could just hear them say they were proud of you once.

Just as you’re about to tell them that, everyone dissolves into thin air, like sand in the wind. All that remains is the torturous echo of their chant.

_“You deserve this.”_

_“You deserve this.”_

_“You deserve this.”_

“Come back,” you whimper. “I’m sorry; please, come back…”

“sweetheart, i haven’t gone anywhere.”

The voice from before is back. _“Not you,”_ you want to say. But this pain is more excruciating than the physical pain. Loneliness from the abandonment of everyone you ever loved takes over and forbids you from speaking anymore. Sniffles morph into sobs, and this time when you pass out, you don’t dream.

This time, when you wake, you can see the skeleton sitting on the coffee table. His identity comes back to memory. “Sans…”

He perks up at the sound of your voice croaking his name. “there she is,” he smiles, leaning forward and kissing your forehead. “welcome back, sweetheart.”

Your head still throbs, especially where his mouth touches it, but thankfully the contact doesn’t last long. Sans stands and goes to the kitchen, coming back with a paper cup, which he pushes against your lips.

“drink this. it’s water infused with golden flowers; it’ll help bring your health back up.”

Obediently, you open up, and this time the liquid stays down. Some of it dribbles out and drips on the couch cushions under your head. With the lubrication, you’re able to speak again, though only in a whisper.

“What did you do to me?”

Sans takes back the empty cup and sets it on the table. “i just gave you a little bit of magic. think of it like a full body detox. honestly, i’m surprised you’re so lucid already. it was a pretty high dose.” He grins. “must be your strong soul. i knew i picked a good one.”

He’d drugged you. That explained it. Seeing your friends, your family…they had been hallucinations. But it had felt so real…

“Y…you don’t have to do that again, do you?”

Sans shakes his head. “nope. it’s a one-time thing. there is one more step though…”

Before you can ask what it is, Sans scoops you up into his arms, and carries you to the bathroom. The bathtub is filled with water; steam rises from the surface, and a skim of rose-scented bubbles floats on top. Two washcloths are draped over the side, and a bottle of conditioner, shampoo, and a bar of soap sit along the rim.

Sans sits you on the sink counter, and reaches for the hem of your shirt. You grab his hand just before he touches it. “I…I can do this myself.”

Sans pries your fingers loose. “it’s part of the process darling. you’re purified on the inside; now we gotta deal with the outside.” The hole where his nasal cavity would be wrinkles up. “no offense, but you really need it.”

Your cheeks flare with heat; with all the sweat, grime, and other bodily fluids and materials coating your body, you really do stink. But before you can protest again, Sans raises your arms and pulls your shirt off, then sets to work on the zipper of your pants. “besides, i don’t want you _drowning_ _your sorrows_ in the bathtub.”

As he removes your clothes, you freeze in place like a petrified prey animal caught by a predator. Once you’re fully undressed, he sets you down in the water. The warmth tries to soothe your achy muscles, but you refuse to relax. Instead, you bend your legs at the knees and wrap your arms around your chest to cover your breasts. Once you’re curled into the tightest ball you can manage, you shut your eyes tight, and try to focus on the sound of the drips from the tap.

Two arms suddenly reach under your armpits and lift you, adjusting you so you’re sitting on a bony lap. Something that does _not_ feel like collagen presses against your backside. 

You flail and try to stand as a _very_ naked Sans spreads his legs out underneath you. “What are you doing?!”

He sniggers and forces you to sit down again. “it’s part of the ritual, darling. as soulmates, we’ve gotta wash together. don’t worry, i know you don’t have your full strength back, so i’ll help you out with mine. tilt your head back.”

The golden flower water from earlier has made you a little stronger, but you have nowhere near the capabilities you do when you’re healthy. So you allow him to lean you back, taking another cup and pouring a scoop of water over you. It cascades down your hair; you close your eyes and try to convince yourself you’re just at the hair salon. It doesn’t work.

As he massages shampoo and conditioner in, his claws gently scrape against your scalp. “i love your hair color. it made me sick when i saw you had dyed it; it was too dark. don’t worry, the formula for the magic in your system made it so dye won’t work anymore. someone as radiant as you needs to glow like the sun.”

Despite how dirty you were, the water stays fresh and doesn’t need to be drained and refilled, probably a result of more magic. After he finishes rinsing your hair, he wets one of the washcloths and lathers up the bar of soap. He begins rubbing it over your arms, taking extra care with the scratches, which are already starting to scab. He tsks at the sight of your older scars.

Humiliation swells in you, and you move to cover them with a hand. But when you try to adjust your arms, your breasts peek out. Before you can lean forward to hide them, one of his hands slides up your stomach, slips under your arms, and cups the underside of one.

“you don’t have to hide anymore, hun. even with the scars, you’re _beautiful_.”

On the last word, he squeezes gently, and his thumb brushes over your nipple. You gasp, but it doesn’t feel like you get any air. “S…stop…”

He ignores you, and leans forward to press his mouth against the side of your neck. Before you know what’s happening, there’s a stinging sensation, as sharp teeth nip at your tender skin. You jolt, but he holds you tight, back against his chest. Though he has no lips, you feel a wet suction as he sucks and licks the spot he bit. All the while, his fingers on his left hand continue playing with your chest. Your arms go heavy and drop to your sides, and Sans takes advantage, moving to fondle the other side as well. You feel hot, and it’s not from the water temperature.

His right hand slides down your side, stopping to rest on the side of your hip, where a tattoo sits. “had my friend alter the magic formula a little so your ink wouldn’t disappear,” he murmurs against your neck. “Other monsters might think it unorthodox, but these are part of you. i didn’t want to lose that.” He rubs the spot fondly. “this one’s my favorite.”

Of course it is. It’s the first tattoo you ever got, a simple black and white skull, no bigger than your thumb. It had been done at the cheapest shop you could find online on the day you’d officially left home. You had gotten it as a symbol, a way to remind yourself that starting then, you would live for you, and no one else. For a while it had been your favorite one too.

Now, you wanted nothing more than to peel it off, along with all your other tattoos.

“stars, sometimes i still can’t believe you’re really mine. _all mine_ …”

His hand has slid across your stomach, and slightly down. At the contact in this area, you tense up again. “Please, stop it…You promised…No sex…”

Sans chuckles and licks your neck and up, leaving a slimy saliva trail along the side of your face. “This ain’t sex sweetheart. It’s just a little foreplay. To give you a taste of what’s to come. Besides, you broke our agreement. Though trust me, this’ll feel more like a reward than a punishment.”

Fresh nausea swirls in your stomach, and your core tightens as he grazes your entrance. “Please…I don’t want this…”

“yes, you do, sweetheart. i’ll _prove_ it to you.”

Without warning, he thrusts a finger inside. As he starts to pump in and out, his opposite hand leaves your breasts and turns your head so he can kiss your mouth. His tongue slides across your lips, and tries to pry the seal open. With your arms free, you shove him, but he’s too big, so he doesn’t budge. You make the mistake of screaming in frustration, and at the sudden opening, his tongue plunges inside.

It explores your mouth, sliding along your own tongue as he tastes and teases you. All the while, his finger continues to move in and out, occasionally stroking along your walls as it searches for the right spot to weaken you further.

It seems like an eternity before he pulls his mouth off yours. “fuck, sweetheart, you’re so _tight_. i’ll hold off from doing anything in bed, but stars, it’s so tempting. i bet you taste _delicious_.”

A particularly slow movement draws a moan from you, and his smile grows darker. The sound encourages him to add a second finger, which he starts off using with the first to pinch your clit. You keel backward against him, panting. Everything constricts inside you at an agonizing pace. Your soul screams at you to make it stop; you can feel it flaring in your chest, and it hurts, it hurts so much! But it’s impossible to set your focus on anything aside from what he’s doing to you.

The tightness builds and builds…

“fuck sweetheart, you love this, don’t you? love how i take over, how i _dominate_ you…come on precious, i want you to _lose control_ …”

That’s finally the point where it overwhelms you. You can’t hold on anymore; you’re forced to let go, in a sudden explosion. Head tilted back, a cry breaks free, and Sans hugs you tightly through the entire thing. When you slump against him, exhausted, he leans in close.

“i told you that you wanted it. that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t wanted it.”

Though you’re sitting in a tub of water, you’ve never felt so filthy. As you come down from your forced orgasm, numbness clouds every sense.

You think you must be dying.

You _wish_ you were dying.

This is not an over-exaggerated hope, like that of a teenager when they witness their parents do something embarrassing and groan, “Kill me now.” This is a longing that comes when everything inside feels empty. You’ve been drained; everything spilled out of you in a singular moment. A moment that before all this, you hadn’t even tried to accomplish yourself, for fear that it wouldn’t feel the same if it was done by your own hand or by machines. Three words float around in your head, haunting your thoughts.

_You deserve this._

You stare straight ahead at the slowly disappearing foam and don’t even react when Sans finishes washing your body, then places a washcloth in your hand. He lifts your arm, guiding your hand so the cloth rubs across his leg bones and between each toe. You don’t flinch when he rises from the tub, and takes you out with him. You don’t even blink when he dries you off and redresses you in a lacy babydoll. It’s white. Of _course_ it’s white.

Before he exits the bathroom with you in his arms, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror. Every dark shade seems darker than normal against your pallid skin tone. Your eyes look dead, with dark bags hanging underneath them. The hickey on the side of your neck is already starting to purple. Your hair, though now clean, hangs limp and lifeless over your shoulders.

You don’t recognize yourself.

In the bedroom, Sans sets you down on the bed and sits beside you. “that’s another step complete honey. we’re getting so close.”

You fold your hands together on your lap and focus on your broken fingernails. His arm curls around your shoulders, and you don’t even flinch.

“aren’t you excited, sweetheart? come on, give me a smile. i miss seeing you smile.”

You don’t think you’ll ever smile again.

You can hear his own smile slip when he speaks again. “what’s wrong hun? tell me. let me make it better.”

All he does is make it worse.

When it’s clear you aren’t going to give him anything, he takes action, leaning in close. His fingers trace the growing mark on your neck.

It’s not what he does that finally makes you start to feel something again; it’s what he says. What you experience is a formidable amount of sheer terror.

“soulmates don’t keep secrets from each other sweetheart. so, when were you planning on telling me about your gift?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for what I've put Y/N through...


	8. The Role of the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N's secret is out. But does it mean more than she realized?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little too proud of how I made this chapter title rhyme, haha.
> 
> Thank you again for the amazing response to this story! I love and appreciate every comment, kudos, bookmark, and hit! I especially love reading hear your thoughts/theories/questions, etc, in the comments section, so if you'd like, drop some words! If you don't want to, no worries; I'm just thankful people are reading. :)
> 
> Warnings: Biting and psychological/emotional abuse

There’s a moment just before your world falls apart when your mind tries to convince you everything is going to be fine.

It’s a useless thought. But for the briefest of seconds, the staggering pile of problems atop your shoulders stops wobbling, and you think you can set them down without breaking anything.

Sans drums his fingers of his free hand atop his knee as he awaits your response. You can’t stay frozen forever. The first metaphorical step forward is simple.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Even to your ears that didn’t sound convincing. The bones tracing your hickey slow, but don’t stop. Gently, they brush away a section of hair that has fallen down and partially covered the bruising mark. Another quiver runs through you, and you hold your breath to stiffen the muscles.

“don’t _fibula_ darling. i know when you’re _patella-ing_ me the truth or not.”

He’s telling jokes. That _must_ be a good sign. You allow yourself one slow, drawn-out exhale before the next step.

“M…maybe you’re mistaken.”

That was the wrong step.

The switch is instantaneous. Sans grips your chin and jerks your head to face him. His red eye socket flares, and his teeth are bared, two rows of finely sharpened daggers. The hole in his skull is a dark, endless void.

“you think i’m a fucking idiot?”

Your jawbone feels like it’s about to snap. You can barely get out your response. “N…no…”

Mercifully, he releases you, but uses the offending hand to push against the center of your chest, which is barely covered by the babydoll. His touch is cold against the bared skin, but after a couple seconds, he pulls back.

Your soul pops out, following his hand. It hovers over his open palm, oblivious to its relocation. The warmth of its glow travels back to you through an invisible string that keeps it connected. The heat is strong, but the blue mist encasing the familiar shape prevents it from going further than your epidermis. A new kind of hollowness is left to unfurl inside you.

Sans appears entranced. Gently, he traces a finger around the scalloped edge of its outermost layer. “i remember, the first time i saw you do it, i thought i was seeing things,” he murmurs.

A shudder courses through you from the contact, but he doesn’t even react.

“it was the first time i laid my sockets on you, at some traveling carnival downtown. there were a lotta flags.”

That was almost a year and a half ago. The country’s national day, the one day every year when people actually took the time to celebrate their independence and freedom. You hadn’t wanted to go, thinking the fair too expensive, but your friends had convinced you to tag along.

You swear, if you make it out of here alive, to never take advantage of that precious liberty again.

“the fireworks were just about to start. i was gonna leave, didn’t really see the point in celebrating. after all, it wasn’t like it was the day monsters were freed.” His brow furrows. “but something in my soul told me to stay. it was like this…tug…i thought maybe it wanted me to go back to the hot dog stand.

“so i turned back around, and there you were.” His tone takes on that of wonderment. “vibrant as a star in the night sky. but you were glaring...”

The sentence ends on a drift, and as he continues to stare at your soul, you wonder if that’s all he’s going to say. After a tense moment, he continues.

“when i followed your gaze, i saw the boss of the carnival yelling at one of his workers. she was crying, and looked real run down. an order of fries was spilled on the ground at her feet. her kid was in rags, arms wrapped around her legs and hiding his face in her clothes. i think the woman was about to be fired.”

His fingers start to clench. A dull, nagging ache spreads through your thorax as he squeezes your soul. It seems to beat more frantically the deeper he pushes, and you wonder how much pressure it would take for it to completely shatter.

Mercifully, he eases up, and your soul returns to its steady rhythm.

“i was about to storm over there to give the guy a bad time for making you frown, but he stopped yelling. a weird expression came over his face, and his soul…” Sans shakes his head incredulously. “it was red, but there was this tiny aqua colored stain that appeared at the very bottom. the longer i watched for, the more it spread, like some kinda bacteria. when the entire thing was cyan, he gave his head a shake and started apologizing to the worker.”

Sans laughs, and it’s breathier than usual. “i had to blink a couple times to make sure my sockets were working properly. when i turned back to find you again, i got a better look at you. your face wasn’t just angry; it was all scrunched up, like you were concentrating really hard. and you weren’t looking at the guy’s head.”

He points to his ribcage. “you were staring here. your own soul burned brighter than any of the fireworks. then i understood what mine was telling me.

“i wanted to sweep you up right then and there. But i knew i had a lotta work to do first, so i held back.” The arm around your shoulder squeezes reassuringly. “And now, here we are.”

Wooziness forces your head to droop. “That’s why you chose me? Because of my _gift_?” It’s never felt more like a curse. The last word is spat out like something rotten.

“weren’t you listening to a thing I said?” Sans smacks the back of your head. It’s a seemingly playful movement, but there’s a hint of warning behind the force. “ _i_ didn’t choose you; my soul did. or rather, _our_ souls did. they called out to each other.”

There’s a lot you don’t remember about that day. You can’t recall what outfit you wore, or what rides your friends dragged you onto. But you sure as hell remember being unable to focus on the magnificence of the fireworks show. After that particularly challenging transformation, there had been a fuzziness in your soul that left you queasy. It hadn’t _called out_ to anything, except maybe a nearby garbage can. Yet…

“i’m so grateful they did. most humans only analyze souls philosophically; they don’t recognize them as real, biological things. now that monsters are back on the surface, more teaching is being done about them, but most of the knowledge comes from ancient texts nobody can be bothered to read. meanwhile, not only can you see souls, yours can change them! that’s something only select monsters can do, and even then, it’s temporary.”

You can practically taste his enthusiasm when he finishes. “i couldn’t have asked for a better soulmate. you’ve got an _incredible_ soul, sweetheart. ”

Sans is convinced it plays some role in this entire hellish experience. It’s hard to convince yourself he’s entirely wrong.

You glare up at the heart shape, beating innocently in front of you. “I wish I didn’t have it. I wish I’d been born without one.”

Silence fills the space between you. Sans tightens his grip on your shoulder. His voice sounds more cautious when he speaks again. “you’re still tired from the purification, and it’s making you confused. come on, lie down here. you don’t mean that.”

Whether his condescension is intentional or not, it ignites a fire inside you. Staying safe by going along with everything and not fighting back has gotten you nowhere but deeper in this shit. So the notion is completely abandoned.

“Yes, I _do_!” Shoving yourself up, you spin around and jab a finger at the offending object. “If I didn’t have that _thing_ , then I never would have stepped in and tried to help you! I hate it! I hate _you_!”

On the last shrieked word, you swipe at your soul, but your fingers sweep right through it. As you fling your arm back to try again, Sans levitates the colored heart out of your reach. With a frustrated cry, you turn your fingernails in his direction, but with a spark of blue, your entire arm freezes in place. 

You’re so sick of him and his damn magic!

Your foot flies out to kick him, but with another flick of Sans’ wrist, you are lifted off the ground and pulled so you float horizontally over the mattress. Spread out on your back, you try to heave yourself upward, but gravity has intensified above you, forcing you flat.

“i know you didn’t mean any of that,” Sans stands over you, shaking his head. “the purification intensified the connection between you and your soul, and the feelings are scaring you.”

His words slip through gritted teeth, as though he’s trying to convince himself as well as you. He grabs the side of the hole in his skull. Where his fingers dig in, bone chips flake off like a dusting of snow. Finally, he stills, and moves to caress your soul like some priceless artifact.

“it’s nothing to be scared of, sweetheart,” he hisses. “it’s something to be embraced. Maybe you just need a little… _encouragement_.”

He eyes your snarling expression, and some of the tension leaves as a small smile crosses his skull. Nothing good can come from that look.

“this might sting a little.”

Before you can ask what that means or spit another insult, your soul is in his open mouth, and he is biting down. _Hard._

As soon as his teeth pierce the glowing flesh, a guttural scream erupts from you. Spots of light explode in your vision. Your soul violently jerks to break free, but his bite is too strong. What feels like fire sears through the invisible tether and into the spot in your chest cavity where your soul should sit. Your body wants to writhe as the feeling spreads, but holds frozen in place where it floats.

When Sans finally pulls back again, choking gasps replace your screams. Your lungs feel like they’ve shriveled to half their capacity. Salty tears stain your cheeks and stray droplets streak down the sides of your face; how is it possible for a body to release so much water through your eyes and not completely dry up?

“there.” His fingers run over the incision. From the teeth marks seeps a shimmery liquid, mostly the color of your soul, but tainted by a faint blue hue. “something to help you remember why you’re here.”

Some of the secretion is around his mouth, and his tongue slides out to lick it up. “hmm,” he muses. “a little sour. like citrus.”

“Put it back…” How you’re able to form coherent sentences after that is a mystery. You don’t even care that you’re begging; the gaping hole inside you is overwhelming everything now. “Please, please, put it back…”

Sans sighs and pulls it out of your sight. “You said you didn’t want it. Let’s see if you still feel that way after a day without it. Don’t worry, it won’t kill you.”

“No…no, please…”

Sans ignores your pleading and turns to the trunk under the window. Removing the keyring from his pocket, he inserts a tiny silver key, and the padlock clicks open. From the way you’re floating, you can’t see if there’s anything inside. 

“i’m not doing this because i want to, sweetheart. i’m doing this to help you learn.”

The heavy clunk of the lid slamming shut overtop your soul, and the click of the padlock being relocked feels like a death sentence.

You weep as he carries you into the living room. It’s the furthest room from the bedroom, and the distance stretches the link between you and your second heart thin. Everything inside you feels confused, like you don’t know how to function without its presence.

For a moment, you can’t remember what life is worth living for.

Sans settles you down on the couch before nestling beside you. A blanket draped over the both of you makes you realize you’re shivering.

“don’t worry darling, the mark’ll heal. and this one won’t go away like your hickey will. it’s a permanent reminder of who your mate is, and how important you are to me.”

You don’t respond, so Sans turns the television on. He tries to settle in and relax beside you, but after a while, his hand is back to gripping his skull again.

“So listen, I was thinking. for the soul bonding ceremony—”

“We interrupt this program for a breaking news announcement!”

The show you weren’t paying attention to shifts to a woman behind a news desk. A headline spreads out underneath her, reading, _DEATH OF ELDERLY CITIZEN REMAINS A MYSTERY_. 

“Police officially have a suspect in the death of Ms. Abigail Peterson. Ms. Peterson was found dead in the apartment building she resided in a week ago. While the cause of death has not yet been determined, police are asking for the public’s help in finding _(y/n) (l/n)._ ”

It takes you a moment to recognize the sound of your own name. You sit up, and a photo of your face appears on the screen.

It looks nothing like the image in the mirror from earlier. How the hell did you ever look that happy?

“The twenty-one year old was reported missing by her landlord yesterday. After not receiving a response to multiple phone messages and emails regarding this month’s missed rent, the landlord entered _(y/n)_ ’s suite to find it in shambles. _(Y/N)_ ’s keys were also found in the room Abigail’s body was found in.

“According to the landlord, _(Y/N)_ was supposedly very close to Ms. Peterson, but has not been seen since the day of her death. Anyone with information is asked to contact the local police.”

After flashing the number for the local police, the screen returns to the previous show.

Sans flings the blanket off, and jumps to his feet. “fuck…” he mutters, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. Then he stops, and flings the coffee table so it lands on its side. “ _fuck_!”

You’re much more alert now, but without your soul, you can’t get your voice above a dull whisper. “See? I told you people would be looking for me…”

“ _shut up_!” Sans roars, and whirls to jab a finger in your face. You don’t even flinch.

“stay put,” he snarls. “i’ll deal with this.”

Before you can taunt him by asking how, pray tell, he’s going to do that, he vanishes.

You are left alone. But with the possibility of rescue, the hole inside your chest feels a little less empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the next chapter will be from Sans' perspective! 
> 
> I can't wait to see what you guys think of this chapter; thank you again all so much for everything. You truly make writing this a wonderful experience. :)
> 
> Until next time!


	9. His Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the mind behind the madness...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The first chapter from Sans' perspective! I had so much fun getting into his mind for this. :D  
> I've been listening to so much music that has inspired this story, from the characters, to different scenarios. In case you were curious, one artist whose songs I keep coming back to, is Alice Cooper. I don't know why, maybe just the sound/vibe they give off. But I feel like it fits really well! I listened to his song You and Me a lot especially for this chapter.  
> Thank you for giving this story a chance, and reading it. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: A bit of gore, racism, dark thoughts

There were a million reasons why Sans was happy to finally be above ground.

Firstly, the food. Options were endless, in both what one could eat, and how it could be eaten. There was so much that nobody seemed to know what to do with it all. The amount of waste sickened him, but the sheer idea that he _could_ waste was something he’d never thought possible.

Secondly, there were the changing seasons. After being trapped for hundreds of years in a permanent winter, the elation he felt on a warm spring day was nearly equivalent to that of an orgasm. Sure, above ground got winter too. But at least here, there was variety to it. Some days were grey, with wet flurries that produced thick snow and icy sidewalks. On others, the cloud cover would part, revealing clear blue skies. The sun would beam down and the top snow would transform into a glittering wonderland.

He’d missed seeing the stars, especially the sun.

Then there was you, obviously. The notion of finding his soulmate underground had been a sick joke. He’d woken every morning, thinking, “ _Maybe today will be the day_ ,” and ended each day mentally kicking himself for daring to get his hopes up. Now, having a soulmate was his fairytale ending.

Yes, there was a lot Sans could be thankful for on the surface. Yet, it had its downsides as well.

Sans _hates_ the city.

The sounds of traffic and yelling humans grates on his invisible eardrums as he tries to focus on his work. Just when he gets a buildup of magic started, a horn blares, and it dissipates for the third time.

His viewpoint was, cities were disgusting. They were just a mess of grey buildings and grey streets filled with so many pollution-producing vehicles that even the sky was grey.

And they were _crowded_. There were too many rude humans too busy caring about themselves to linger in the world around them. Instead, all they did was hurry, backstab and gossip. They were too eager to do whatever they deemed necessary to obtain what they wanted.

Nothing they desired was vital, or necessary for survival. Wealth. Bragging rights. Superiority. A pile of meaningless shit. And once they got it, it was never enough; they needed more.

“they have no idea how good they have it.”

The corpse lies on the autopsy table in front of him, unaware of Sans’ irritation. Eyes removed, its unseeing sockets stare at the ceiling. The sight doesn’t even phase the skeleton. He’s seen worse. Much worse.

Which is why it’s so easy for him to focus on the open chest cavity, and the exposed organs lying inside.

There isn’t much time; the cloud of magic covering the examination room security camera will only last so long. Taking a deep, cleansing breath in, Sans brings his attention back to the heart.

Thin tendrils of magic spill from his fingers, towards the nonfunctioning organ. They burrow into the coronary arteries like worms. Inside the stringy vessels, the throbbing energy produces a dull glow. As the magic hardens and the radiation dies, sections of heart tissue blacken underneath.

_perfect._

That should be visible to whoever comes back to continue the autopsy. Time to visit his next location.

Before he teleports away, he gives one last look at the old woman. A primal instinct he thought he had buried surges up inside of him, urging him to _take it_ _with him_.

_it was meat; **precious meat** that was going to go to **waste** if it was left here. meat that could be used to feed him and his mate for days, maybe even **weeks** if he was careful enough. _

A rush of adrenaline pulses up his spine. Sans has to grip his skull and tug to distract himself from the thought of how _good_ it would feel to bring that much food home.

_i could teach (y/n) how to make a B.L.T._

Not that B.L.T. stands for bacon, lettuce, and tomato to a monster. No, for the creatures from the underground, B.L.T is an acronym for something _much_ more delicious.

_blood._

_ligaments._

_tendons._

Sans’ mouth waters just imagining it. He has to give his head a shake to drive the image away. He isn’t below ground anymore; he’s above. He doesn’t have to do that here.

Besides, the meat is old. It would probably be chewy and bland.

A tug on his soul reminds him he needs to hurry up and get these errands done. His sweetheart is waiting for him at home after all. He can feel her soul’s distress travel into his own soul.

Having it out of her chest, she’s going to need extra comforting to make it through the night. That notion pushes Sans to back away from the autopsy table and blip away.

Inside your old apartment is filthy.

Yellow numbered tags mark your items, sprawled across every possible surface in the one bedroom suite. The mess doesn’t bother Sans; underground he’d never been one for tidying up either. But there’s a musky scent of mildew created by moisture trapped inside the old windows. The kitchen tap drips consistently. The rubber seal inside the refrigerator is lined with mold. 

Thank god he got you out of here. His place in the middle of the woods was _infinitely_ better than this dump. Built sturdy, and well furnished, it was the equivalent of paradise.

There, one could actually see the stars at night. It was quiet, surrounded only the sounds of Mother Nature. Now that it was being shared, it was peaceful.

Or rather, it _should_ have been. 

After watching you for so long, Sans knows you’ll fight for other people. It’s never dawned on him how hard you’re willing to fight for them.

It is _exhausting_.

Sans doesn’t mind a little spunk. That time you slapped him? That was cute. He hopes you’ll put a little of that spice into the sex when it finally happens.

But he can’t forget the torment of having the rage in your soul follow him around the day you tried to poison him.

Sans shoves the excruciating thought away and sets to work sifting through the chaos. Any proof of you knowing him, like the pieces of your old cellphone, has to go. The apartment’s security cameras are broken, and the good thing about being a skeleton is he won’t leave fingerprints. But he still can’t take much, otherwise the cops will know someone was here.

His mouth curls at the sight of the dress and shoes he’d tried to gift you in the garbage bin. With all his planning, there had been a lot of reading involved. One of the conclusions he’d drawn was women liked gifts. But you haven’t thanked him for anything. Not even the wrist watch, which had taken up a considerable chunk of his gold savings.

Sure, he hopes it’ll help you get the chores done on time. But what woman didn’t like pretty, expensive jewelry?

Making his way to your bedroom, Sans eyes the artwork tacked on your walls. Most of it has a melancholic tone, with dark colors and hard brush strokes. Your initials are on the bottom right hand corner of every canvas. 

That personal despair is prevalent in your writing too. Poems fill your notebooks with words that paint their own pictures of loneliness and worthlessness. It’s hard to ingest, but Sans has to admit, you have talent. Maybe if he brings some of your art supplies back with him, you’ll grow more comfortable.

No. You have to learn to adjust to your new role. There can’t be any distractions.

Sans just wants to take care of what’s his, and have you return the favor. The purification was supposed to help you understand the burning connection your soul shares with his.

 _“and it will,”_ Sans reassures himself. He’ll make you happy. It’ll just take some time for you to fully grasp how glorious it is.

He’s also read about substances that increase desire and pleasure. What were they called? Aphrodisiacs? He’s a little hesitant about introducing chemicals to your system and undoing the effects of the purification. But maybe he could try some of the plant and spice options. Food was already a good thing; if it could make you crave enjoyment, that would be an added bonus.

So he tries to forget your past pain, analyzing your handwriting with a critical gaze. Then, pen in hand, he copies it onto a free sheet of paper. Letter by letter, a message forms.

After tucking it under a book on the kitchen table, he transports himself out of the suite, into the empty apartment hallway, fully satisfied. He places a hand on the door, careful to mind the yellow police tape. If he’s done this correctly, this’ll be the last time he ever sees it. .

_good riddance._

“Hey! You can’t go in there! Can’t you read? This is a crime scene!” 

Pulling his arm away, Sans takes a step back and turns to find a man donned in a policeman’s uniform charging towards him.

He gets a better look when the man stops a few feet away. His clothes are a poor fit, hanging loose on his scrawny body. The guy was probably fresh out of the academy. “heh, sorry officer. was just curious whether this suite was available. been thinking about moving. the rent on my building is _criminal_. feels like the landlady is _robbing_ me.”

The officer doesn’t smile at the jokes. His thin pencil moustache curls up on his rat face. “If you don’t live in this building, how did you get in? The front door requires a key.”

Sans doesn’t miss how the hand on his right side twitches, as though to check that his gun is, indeed, within easy access on his belt. “was visiting some friends. they let me in.”

“These friends have names?”

Now Sans’ smile flickers. “what’s this really about, officer?”

“Some friends of the current tenant of this suite have informed us that supposedly she thought she was being harassed by a skeleton.” The pig holds up a picture of you. “You recognize this woman?”

It’s the photo used on your university ID card. It takes everything in Sans to hold his neutral expression. Whatever lighting the picture has been taken with is too harsh, washing out your features.

_he has much better shots at home._

Shots he’d used to jerk off to before he’d finally brought you home, and would probably have to use later once he returned. Despite the poor quality, he can’t deny the tightening in his pants that comes from seeing your face.

“so, what’s your plan here? interview every skeleton you lay your eyes on? you think we all look alike?”

The look on the cop’s paling face as his eyes widen delights Sans.

“N..no! I..I just…”

Sans interrupts his thought before he can finish. “look pal, how many skeleton monsters do you think came up from the underground when it opened up?”

“I…I don’t know. Hundreds?”

_try two._

Sans shrugs. “listen,i've never seen that girl in my life, so i don’t wanna make assumptions. but she was probably being bothered by an ex and just didn’t wanna admit it. so she blamed a monster because that would be an easier story to swallow. or, maybe her friends told you that to rile up the monster haters in the community. it’s a nasty world out there for us right now, ya know?.”

Though the rampant racism towards monsters disgusts Sans, he can’t deny it still has its advantages.

All eagerness at the possibility of wrapping up the case has been wiped from the policeman and been replaced with shame. “I…I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a nice day.”

“you too, buddy.”

As the officer walks away, the carnal feeling from earlier rises up again.

_kill him, kill him, kill him…rip his throat out and tear his organs to shreds…_

_he’s trying to take her away from you; they can’t do that, you won’t let them do that…_

_she’s mine, mine, mineminemine…_

**_mine._ **

Sans grips his skull and tugs hard to break the trance. As much as it would thrill him to eliminate that worthless boy, the police are still deep into your investigation. If one of their own were to turn up dead now, all of the work he’d just done would be for naught.

He wants to go straight home, but the chance that the police officer is waiting outside the building for him to exit is still a slight possibility. Besides, he’s getting hungry. A burger sounds _heavenly_ right now. 

When he steps out onto the sidewalk, Sans’ cellphone explodes with a familiar ringtone, and he jumps.

“shit!” The pulsing electronic beat and synthesized instruments are so loud, the entire city block can probably hear it. Sans snatches his phone out of his pocket, and answers it.

Only one contact has this music programmed as their ringtone. Before he can even say hello, they are speaking. 

“SANS! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I HAVE NOT HEARD FROM YOU IN DAYS!”

Or maybe yelling would be a better description. Sans winces and holds his phone away from the side of his skull. Guilt from the reminder that he hasn’t responded to his brother’s multiple texts attacks with a vengeance. “sorry, Paps, i’ve been really busy lately. it’s left me _bone tired_.”

“SANS, NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR YOUR STUPID PUNS!”

Sans chuckles. “you know i can’t help it, bro. but enough about me.” A memory of one of their past discussions resurfaces. “how did your job interview go?”

Silence falls between them. Sans wonders if their call got disconnected. When he looks at his phone again, the counting up timer confirms it has not ended.

“Papyrus?”

“I…I did not get it…”

The drop in Papyrus’ volume sends a chill throughout every vertebrae. “What? Why the hell not?”

“The manager said he did not think the job was a good fit for…’someone like me.’”

Nobody hurt Papyrus without suffering the consequences. The urge to kill that police officer tries to return, but Sans shoves it down. As good as that would make him feel, it wouldn’t really help.

“don’t sweat it bro. you’ll get the next one. any place would be lucky to have you working for them.”

“YOU ARE RIGHT BROTHER!” Papyrus’ energy is back up to normal levels. “THAT HUMAN WILL BE KICKING HIMSELF FROM MISSING OUT ON THE OPPORTUNITY TO HIRE THE GREAT PAPYRUS! NYEH HEH HEH!”

The sound of his brother’s laughter never fails to put a smile on Sans’ face. An idea on how to further cheer Papyrus up sparks. “hey, speaking of work, remember the cabin i was building in the forest? you wanna know why i built it?”

“IF THIS IS THE BUILDUP TO ANOTHER JOKE—”

“no!” Sans interrupts him before he can finish his thought. “no, it’s not a joke. Pap…I found my soulmate.”

...

…

…

“…IF THAT WAS A PUNCHLINE, I DO NOT GET IT.”

Sans pinches his fingers on his forehead. “no, Papyrus, i’m serious. i found her.”

“WOWIE!” Papyrus’ volume jumps up another level in excitement. He’s even louder than he was when they had first started talking. There isn’t even any time for pauses between his sentences. “WHO IS SHE? WHAT IS HER NAME? WHAT DOES SHE LOOK LIKE? AND MORE IMPORANTLY, WHY HAVE YOU NOT INTRODUCED HER TO THE GREAT PAPYRUS YET?!”

Sans chuckles. “sorry, bro. she’s still getting used to the whole thing. don’t wanna overwhelm her with your greatness.”

“YES, WELL, I SUPPOSE THAT MAKES SENSE.”

Another tug from your soul gets Sans’ focus back on track. “i promise, you’ll get to meet her soon. but I’ve gotta go now. she’s waiting for me.”

“FAREWELL BROTHER. I SHALL CALL YOU AGAIN SOON.”

Sans hangs up. Before he can pocket his phone, someone else calls his name.

“Sans?”

This voice is much softer, and as Sans turns, he spots a familiar face.

“Tori?”

The goat monster gives a warm smile as she wraps Sans up in a hug. “It is good to see you, my friend. How have you been?”

“good.” Toriel is one of the only monsters, aside from Papyrus, that Sans has ever felt he could trust.

“I apologize if it seems like I was eavesdropping, but I could not help but overhear that you have found your soulmate.”

Sans nods, and pride swells in his chest. “sure have.” Sliding his finger across his phone’s screen, he brings up one of the photos of you he has stored, and turns it to Toriel.

She takes the phone and brings the image close to her face for inspection. “Pretty little thing,” she murmurs. Her eyes squint, and she brings the image closer. “And that soul…a fitting color for someone like you.”

“yeah, and that’s not the only thing interesting about it.” Sans takes his device back and lowers his voice to a hush. “she can manipulate other human souls...”

Toriel gasps, and her eyes widen. “Incredible! I have never heard of such a thing!”

“yeah, neither had i.” An idea pops into Sans’ head. “she’s a real special gal, and i’m ready to soul bond with her. problem is, she’s a little…” He snaps his fingers trying to come up with the right term. “… _hesitant_ about the whole thing. we don’t want a lotta people hearing about it; it’s gotta be a more private ceremony. know what i mean?”

Toriel nods solemnly. “I understand. I am more than willing to help out a friend in need. Does Papyrus have your address?”

“yeah, he should.”

Her mouth slips into a grin. “Excellent. I can be at your home by dusk in three days time.”

“Thanks Tori. You’re the best.” Your soul gives another pull, and this one is so insistent that it makes Sans wince a little. So he bids Toriel goodbye, and finally manages to teleport back home.

It’s cold in the cabin when he arrives.

“sweetheart? i’m home.” You are no longer lying on the couch. The frigid atmosphere probably drove you to the bedroom, to hide under the warm blankets. “what, no welcome back hug and kiss?”

No response. Poor, frail little thing was probably fast asleep, worn out from having your soul removed. Sans starts to head down the hallway, and stops when he feels wetness under his feet.

Water flows from under the bathroom door, which is shut. It seeps into the floorboards, and Sans can feel the timber warping already.

"sweetheart?” He knocks a couple of times. “you alright?”

No response. Not even the sound of breathing.

What if you had decided to take a bath to try to warm up and fallen asleep in the tub? Or…

Sans’ breath falters as he recalls the mirror in the bathroom.

It’s the only glass in the entire cabin that’s able to shatter or break.

Without hesitation, he rams his shoulder against the door. Wood splinters, and the doorknob creates an indent in the wall behind it as the obstacle bangs against the logs. But Sans pays no mind to the damage as he charges in, bracing himself for what he’ll find.

The bathtub is empty. The mirror is intact. There’s no blood. The only thing pooling is the water, which is coming from the overflowed toilet.

Something she’d eaten while he was away must have disagreed with her. But the stagnant water in the bowl is clear and pristine. There is no odor to it.

Sans steps forward to investigate and something metallic stuck in the drain catches his eye. When he plunges a hand inside and pulls it out, he finds it is indeed metal.

With tiny diamonds around the face.

“sweetheart? come on, this ain’t funny anymore.” Setting the watch on the bathroom counter, he goes to the bedroom. You’re not there either. The trunk lid is open, and your soul has soared out. It bashes itself repeatedly against the window, reopening its wounds from his bite.

Sans could have sworn he had closed the trunk. And why was it so damn _cold_?

He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

His very _empty_ jacket pockets.

Sweat beads on his skull. _“(y/n)_?” he calls, more urgency to his voice this time. He runs down the hallway, back towards the kitchen.

Sans jerks to a halt when he’s about to pass the front door.

It swings on its hinges, the outside wind pushing it against the wall. Every time it knocks against the drywall, the keyring hanging from the knob jingles. Prints in the snow are starting to fill up, as the darkening sky unleashes fresh powder from the heavens.

Sans’ world falls apart. When he opens his mouth, an anguished scream breaks loose.

_“(Y/N)!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y/N better run...  
> Thank you for reading and all your support!


	10. The Definition of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N has made her great escape, and all she wants is to just go home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at Chapter 10! This has been going so much better than I ever could have anticipated, and your response has just been incredible. Thank you all. 
> 
> The first italicized portion of this chapter involves the time during Chapter 9, when Sans was out. Everything after the word 'Now' is after the end of that chapter. 
> 
> There are a few Christmas songs mentioned, "Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow," "Little Drummer Boy," and "All I Want for Christmas Is You," none of which belong to me obviously. :)
> 
> Not as many warnings for this chapter, but please, do continue to use caution as we proceed. This is not meant to be a happy story.   
> Warnings: Emotional/psychological abuse

_Meanwhile..._

_He left the keyring in the padlock on the trunk._

_You almost miss it when you first enter the room, body exhausted from its past ordeal and demanding reconciliation in the form of sleep. But then you flop on the mattress, stomach first, which limits your eyesight to the section of wall under the window and the floor._

_There it hangs, like a prize on the back wall of a carnival game booth. You refuse to believe it at first. It’s a trick, another delusion left over from the magic used to drug you. Or it could be another one of Sans’ tests. He could be hiding and watching from somewhere, waiting to pounce the moment your fingers touch the metal._

_But it seems with the rush of what happened earlier, it just slipped his mind to take the ring back. The only movement comes when you unlock the trunk and your soul soars up from its captivity. It hovers like a celestial being, stubbornly passing through your fingers when you reach out to guide it back to your chest._

_Resentment helps to dim the uncomfortable feelings that come from its absence. Fine. Your earlier conversation with Sans replays in your mind. If he loves your soul so much, he can have it. He doesn’t need to keep the mess of other organs and failures that came along with it. With it out of your chest, maybe he won’t be able to track you._

_Besides, if there’s a chance this ball of nothing is what summoned him, even unintentionally, then you don’t want it._

_It’s not like it’s the very culmination of your being or something stupid like that._

_The bedroom door doesn’t fly open when you rifle through the dresser to find a new change of clothes._

_There’s no shouts or tantrums as you unclasp the watch from your wrist, drop it into the toilet, and press down on the lever, watching it get sucked into the pipes with quiet euphoria._

_When you grab a bottle of vitamin water from the fridge and stuff your pockets with what little edible food fits, the only feeling in the kitchen is that of bliss._

_Your legs aren’t frozen with blue magic when they step over the threshold and down the porch steps. Newly strengthened, they take off sprinting into the beckoning woods._

_You’re going home._

*********

Now…

The stillness of an ending winter day should be peaceful. But it’s tainted by the worry that any second, you’ll get blindsided. There’s no way to know whether Sans has discovered you’re missing yet. While you’re delighted to be rid of the watch, without it, you have no concept of how long you’ve been trekking for.

You’re not the most physically fit person out there. Add to that an inconsistent diet made mostly of hot dogs and small portions of whatever Sans deemed acceptable, and you’re left only a portion of your usual stamina to work with. You have to alternate between bouts of running and walking to make your way. 

You have no compass or map. The tops of trees block the sky, but even if you could see it clearly, it would be challenging to distinguish stars from snowflakes. You figure the best course of navigation is to keep going straight.

The plan, which steadily grows the further from the cabin you get, is to find either the closest community, or a road that can be followed to one. Surely someone will recognize you from the news story and call the police.

Being suspected as a murderer is a concern, but you can explain the entire story once safe and sound in police custody. Sans will be arrested and punished for his crimes. You’ll return to your apartment and the people waiting for you.

Amy. Jessie. Andrew. Their smiling faces give your legs new life, and you start to run again.

Life will return to normal.

_Sans is a monster. What can the law possibly do against his magic?_

_He’s going to get away with it, like so many criminals before him._

No. You refuse to think like that. Things _will_ work out.

They have to.

*********

It’s getting harder to trudge through the growing snow drifts. Though the trees provide some cover, it still builds up. You have to pick your legs up a little higher to get your feet out for each step.

You’ve been gone at least a week, which means it’s sometime in early December. The white and green scenery reminds you Christmas is approaching. You sing holiday songs under your breath to keep yourself awake, humming the lyrics you can’t remember.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

“Come, they told me. Pa rum pum pum pum…”

“Make my wish come true…All I want for Christmas is…”

Your voice dies on the last word. While living on your own, Christmas has always been a lonely occasion. Beforehand, your friends are always happy to exchange gifts and, if your schedules work out, do a dinner all together at one of the local pubs. But the actual holiday they always spend out of town with their families.

As they should. From your countless conversations and select times you’ve met them, it’s clear your friends all have very close family relationships. You, on the other hand, haven’t been to your parent’s house for Christmas since you were a child. They’ve never extended an invitation. Every year you consider asking, but find that nerves prevent you from picking up the phone.

The one time you received anything remotely holiday related from your parents, it was a postcard after New Year’s. The front featured a photo of the Eiffel Tower lit up with glittering white lights. A Christmas village scene, complete with a skating rink, was captured below the monument.

On the back, all that was written was the generic phrase, “Wish you were here!” It wasn’t even in your mother’s handwriting; it was printed by whatever company had produced the card. The only way you determined it was from them was by the way the section for your address had been filled in.

The thought of sitting on your dumpy sofa with a cold turkey sandwich churns your stomach. Another year of being there, surrounded only by the few Christmas decorations you own. One string of lights with half the bulbs needing replacement and some paper snowflakes (Artificial trees are too expensive, and your apartment doesn’t allow live trees in the suites). The image doesn’t seem very appealing.

Maybe this year could be different. All you want from your friends is to share a hug. And after everything, you’ll gladly swallow your pride and knock on your parents’ door to try to reconcile your differences.

_What’s the point of trying? They probably won’t accept your apology._

_They could be out of town right now. Maybe they don’t even know you’re missing._

_It’ll be the same as it always is. What’s the point of returning to that?_

You give your head a shake and think up another song to hum as you push forward.

*********

The last of the vitamin water is barely enough to take a proper sip. When you pull the last hot dog bun out of your pocket, it breaks in half. The half you weren’t holding drops into the snow.

“D…damn it!” When you stop to retrieve the now soggy bread, a wind goes through you. It’s like you’re wearing nothing at all.

Stuffing food in your mouth reduces some of the teeth chattering as they are tasked with chewing. After re-pocketing the dry half, you envelope your arms around yourself. Though you’re wearing the warmest clothes you could find in the cabin, it’s still only a black fleece housecoat and some skinny jeans. Sans clearly wasn’t planning on taking you out anytime soon.

The fuzzy slippers on your feet are soaked through; what was once a prickling sting in your toes is now numbness. Concern about the development of frostbite, and potentially gangrene, builds.

“S…s…stop it.” Worry isn’t going to help; you can’t go back now. You need to focus on finding the road, the people looking for you. What you’re going to do once you’re back again.

Your dreams are fuzzy images in your mind you can’t properly visualize. Life’s always been a confusing mess. Maybe that constant daily struggle prevented you from forming true goals.

One of them might have had something to do with finishing school. Perhaps that was all you had, just minor accomplishments to prove to yourself you’re a functioning human being.

You should come up with some aspirations. Maybe based on the things that are important to you. Things you love. 

What do you love?

You can’t even come up with something you _like_.

_What’s the point of trying to think them up? It’s not like you’ll ever have the resources to achieve them._

One of the pine trees ahead of you has a broken branch that hangs down to the ground like an angled canopy. The possibility of a memory flickers.

Didn’t you pass that tree a while back? Your footprints have long been covered, so it’s impossible to know for sure.

There’s a patch of black ice under your next step, causing you to falter and land face first on the ground. It takes a monumental amount of effort to crawl on your hands and knees toward the shelter. Each movement forward feels like you’re pushing against a brick wall.

Or perhaps not pushing, but being pulled. The emptiness in your chest is back at full strength, and seems to be tugging at your insides. Like a fish struggling to break free of a fishing line, its mouth snagged on a hook.

The sensation doesn’t hurt per se. It just feels wrong. Another violation to add to your never-ending list. 

Where the hell are you? You should have come across _some_ sign of civilization by now. People were looking for you, weren’t they? Wasn’t that what the news lady said? You can’t even remember the full details of the report anymore.

Of course people are looking for you. You start to list them off out loud to stop yourself from crying. The water would just freeze to your cheeks.

“Amy.”

“A…Austin?”

…

That was all of them, right?

_It’s getting so hard to think._

Though the tree bark behind you is bumpy and sharp, having something to lean against is a relief.

It’s so quiet. Out here, alone in the forest, do you even still exist?

Maybe you’ll rest for a little bit.

It feels so nice to close your eyes…

*********

_"(y/n)…”_

_“(y/n)?”_

_“…are you?”_

“ _(Y/N)_?!”

When the mumbles you assumed were in your head become louder, you jerk awake. The surge is only momentary. As soon as your name stops echoing in the trees, you sag against your trunk again. But then you hear it again.

Who was that?

Sunlight pokes through the holes in your cover; did you sleep for the entire night? Your body tries to convince you to rest a few more minutes, but the woods are getting noisier.

A woodpecker taps for food. Snow from other branches gets jostled and tumbles to the ground. And somewhere in the distance, growing ever closer…

The crunch of feet breaking through the frozen top layer of snow grows louder. It’s followed by another rough call of your name.

_Did they find you?_

“ _(y/n)_? come on sweetheart, where are you?”

There’s only one person who calls you sweetheart, and he’s not even a person.

Keeping as still as you can, you peer through the tree branches. Your frozen wet clothes cling to your skin, acting as camouflage as Sans emerges panting from the tree line in front of you.

A warmth tries to build in your center, and you huddle to hold onto it. Your vision is partly covered; is he carrying your soul? Using it as some sort of guide to your location? 

It must not be a perfect compass, because his gaze darts left to right and never lands on your hiding spot. Blue light fills his cheekbones. His voice cracks when he speaks again.

Is he crying?

“please, sweetheart, don’t do this to me. i _need_ you.”

Need? Nobody’s ever said they needed you before, unless it was to ask for assistance. Still, you don’t move.

“why do you wanna go back to that filthy city? there’s nothing for you there.”

 _“Of course there is,”_ your foggy brain insists. But it can’t dredge up any examples, and nothing else in you works to support the feeble argument.

His baritone continues, tainted by stress and desperation. “think of all you’ve done for other people. what have they ever done to help you in return? any little assistance those fools gave, they woulda done for any other poor schmuck they found on the street. they didn’t care about you. they felt sorry for you. that’s not gonna change if you go back.”

_They never cared…And if they never cared, maybe the obligatory amount of time to spend looking is spent, and they’ve given up._

_Maybe they were never looking in the first place._

“aren’t you tired of fighting?”

_You were. You were so tired…_

“let someone who truly loves you take care of _you_ for once. please, sweetheart, let me take you home.”

_Home…_

You latch onto the word. In the city, you have a place of residence that serves as a house. But what else does it have to offer? Does four walls and a roof filled with possessions make a home?

Maybe that could be your dream. That is what you want, and Sans is offering to help you achieve it. It’s become a potential reality.

You lift the tree branch, and crawl out from underneath your temporary shelter.

Sans is in the process of retreating, but whips around at the rustle. His eyesockets widen at the sight of you. “ _(y/n)_?”

In a flash, he’s directly in front of you. “good girl, _(y/n)_ , good girl,” he praises softly, smoothing your hair against the sides of your face. Though his hands are only bone, the contact emits warmth, and you lean into it.

“jesus, your skin’s like ice,” he murmurs, before wrapping his arms around you and swallowing you up in a hug.

“I…I want…”

Sans pulls back a little to watch you carefully. “what is it sweetheart? what do you need?”

You need not to hurt anymore.

Your soul floats to the open distance between you. Though it still can’t get back to the void in your chest, having it close again makes talking a little easier.

“I…I wanna…go…home…”

Sans crushes you to his chest again in response, and you surrender to the embrace. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt any sort of comfort. Security. Closeness.

In this moment, nothing bothers you at all.

You’re going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, Y/N is back in Sans' clutches. Was her change in thinking due to the onset of hypothermia? Or was something darker playing a role?...I have my answer, but it'll be interesting to hear your thoughts on this one!
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and as always, feel free to leave a comment if you feel so inclined. :)
> 
> See you in Chapter 11!


	11. *Put On A Show*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her near-death experience, Y/N must make some changes to how she tackles this devastating situation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the comments I saw, I think most people got why Y/N's thoughts were so muddled and altered at the end of the last chapter. But this one will hopefully help to clarify.   
> A big song inspiration for this chapter was The Show Must Go On by Queen (I love that band with all my heart and soul). 
> 
> *WARNINGS/TAGS for this chapter*: Emotional/psychological/verbal abuse, gaslighting, oral sex (Y/N chooses to do it, but the means by which it is introduced are very deceptive, so I don't consider it truly consensual), some dirty talk and name-calling goes on during the sex as well.  
> PLEASE use caution and mind the tags! This chapter is starred, so it does get graphic!
> 
> Finally, another huge thank you again to everyone who has given this story a chance. I love every comment, bookmark, kudo, and hit. <3 You all are amazing people.

Sans still hasn’t put your soul back in your chest.

He teleported you back to the cabin a couple hours ago. Before he opened the door to bring you in, you’d tried once more to take the warm heart-shaped object back. You made grabby hands like a toddler. Tears of frustration built in your eyes every time it teased you by slipping through your fingers.

Sans had immediately started making soft shushing sounds as you whined in discomfort. “i know you want it, sweetheart,” he’d said. “and I can tell you’ve learned your lesson. but I said one day without. there’s still a couple hours left to go.”

He hasn’t spoken much since, working through the process of warming you up. Now you’re out of your wet clothes. The new ones he dressed you in are still skimpy, but every inch of skin they don’t cover is dealt with by blankets that encase your body. Every single one in the house must be wrapped around you, immobilizing you in the bed.

Though your soul isn’t back inside you yet, at least Sans was gracious enough to allow you to keep it out of the trunk. It floats as close as it can get without actually touching you. The constant radiation helps to clear the haze in your thoughts, but your memories are still very dim.

Sans’ voice filters through the closed door. Is he talking to himself?

“hey…it’s Sans…”

The barrier breaks up and distorts his sentences. As you strain to listen, you realize he must be on his cellphone.

“… know you said…days, but something’s come up. so…have to postpone…i’ll call you when…thanks, you’re the best. talk…you later…”

When the doorknob starts to turn, you try to hide the fact you were eavesdropping by focusing intently on your soul. Sans catches you staring at it when he comes in holding a mug. Steam rises and curls in fantastical shapes above it. Watching makes your dry mouth attempt to salivate. His phone is nowhere to be seen.

“bath’s almost ready. drink this; it’ll help with the pain.”

Sitting up on your side and wriggling to free your arms, you accept the extended beverage. The heat prickles your fingers, which thankfully only received a touch of frostnip despite the hours exposed to the elements. You hug it close and take a sip. The tea is a blessing to your parched throat.

“Thank you…”

Sans’ face beams with a triumphant grin after your whisper. “if i’d known all i had to do to help you realize what was important was take your soul out, i woulda done it a long time ago. i’ll hafta keep that in mind in case you act up again.”

You’d rather eat a million hot dogs in one sitting than go through this again.

“Who…who was on the phone?”

Sans narrows his eye sockets. “what are you talking about?”

You gesture with your mug, careful not to spill the precious liquid inside. “I…I heard you talking outside the door?”

“i wasn’t talking to anyone, sweetheart. your ears must be waterlogged from all the snow outside.” His red eye light brightens. “which reminds me…”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out what you recognize as the wristwatch. He dangles it in front of you like a treat for a dog. “good thing i got one that’s waterproof, instead of a _crappy_ dollar-store quality one.”

You open your mouth to direct him back to the question he was so quick to brush off. But before you can speak, he chuckles and slips the watch over your free hand. “ _urine_ for a treat now, hun. congratulations; you made it a whole day without your soul.”

Your spirits try to lift. _Does that mean…?_

Yes! Sans coaxes your soul to his open hands and, with extreme precision, pushes it through the cleft between your breasts.

Not only does the pain of rewarming intensify as your second heart settles back into position. Images and information you’d thought were lost forever pop back into full clarity. The rush of emotions nearly takes your breath away.

Your friends’ names are Amy, Jessie, and Andrew.

You want to visit the Louvre after you graduate.

You want to go home. Home is…well, your definition is still a little muddled. But this cabin is not it.

The small metal band encircling your wrist is back to weighing like the heaviest shackle.

Sans is watching carefully for your reaction, so you temper the swelling emotions with thoughts of the reality of your precarious situation. Another sip of tea helps to maintain a calmed expression. You keep your tone meek when you thank him again.

Sans’ smile widens. Satisfied by your second display of gratitude, he sets to work unwrapping you from the blankets. Once freed, you are easily hoisted and brought to the bathroom.

The mirror has disappeared from its place on the wall. Did a fit of unbridled rage upon the discovery of your absence lead him to smash it?

Your first experience with the tub causes your body to tense in memory. But Sans doesn’t try anything inappropriate; he simply undresses you, then eases you into the gently warmed water. The fact that it isn’t boiling is surprising; you wonder if he took the time to do research on how to treat frostbite, or if this is knowledge he already held.

He keeps your feet elevated and dry over the side of the tub. The sight makes you wince. While your fingers were lucky, your lower extremities are waxy and swollen in the second stage of frostbite. Already, fluid filled blisters are developing on a couple of toes.

Running, let alone walking or even standing is impossible in this condition. There’s absolutely no way.

“you’re lucky you didn’t go any longer without it,” Sans comments offhandedly as he wets a washcloth and carefully drapes it over a foot. “otherwise i woulda been carrying back a corpse.”

It takes you a second to piece together what he’s talking about.

“You…you mean my soul?”

He looks up from his task and smirks. “what else would i be talking about, sweetheart? your outstanding wit and dazzling smile?”

“Going too long without it can kill you?”

If Sans had eyes to move, he’d be rolling them. “jeez, i gotta explain everything to you?” He taps a finger against his skull, the clink of bone against bone grating on your nerves. “did your few brain cells freeze out there, too?” The prickling as your skin returns to its normal temperature is nothing compared to the tingles that appear after his insult.

The mocking tone slips away as Sans points towards your chest. “sweetheart, your soul is the piece of you that makes you…well, _you_. without it, you don’t have any drive. you forget everything that’s important to you. all your passions, your dreams. everything withers away. eventually, you wither too.”

In less than twenty-four hours, you’d been reduced to a confused mess. You’d contributed the memory loss to the onset of hypothermia. “I…I didn’t realize how important it was.”

Sans shakes his head and grabs a second cloth to place on your other foot. “it was pretty desperate to get back to you. in all the time we’ve spent together, i’ve never felt it tug so hard on my own soul. good thing i didn’t attribute it just to another one of your tantrums. doubt many humans are familiar with this area.”

This area? Was he implying you were underground? But there were trees, animals…you even saw the sun rise and fall each day! Was it too far of a stretch to assume that Sans could have planted a light orb high above you, and used magic to allow it to maneuver like the sun?

“Oh my god…” The water turns frigid. In your desperation to be found, you could have ended up someplace where recovery would be impossible. The frost covered ground could have become your permanent resting place. You would have never seen your friends again.

“don’t get so dramatic. i found you, didn’t i?”

That’s true. He could have left you to freeze to death. Instead, he’d taken the effort to prevent that from happening. Surely that meant he had to have _some_ redeeming qualities.

“what were you thinking, anyway? you know you aren’t strong enough to go out on your own.”

There was the asshole again. You could tell him exactly why you’d left, but you’re in no position to defend yourself if he gets violent. The only other option is to lie.

But you have to be careful with those too. After both past escape attempts, he’s mentioned feeling something in his own soul coming from yours. It’s like he can tell when you aren’t being loyal.

What had that contract you’d signed said again?

_(Y/N) agrees to be devoted to her soulmate and dedicated to the role she is meant to fulfill in this relationship._

That had to have something to do with it. When you tried to poison him, he could tell you weren’t behaving in a way he deemed ‘devoted.’ But this time, he just mentioned your soul had felt distressed. He could be giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming it was because of your near death experience.

If you can just convince him, now that it’s back where it belongs, you’re starting to feel some of that ‘connection’ he insists you have. Maybe then he’ll start to let his guard down. Then, once it’s safe to do so, you can make your move.

The focus cannot be on your hatred. Instead, you have to put all thought into playing a role. You are no longer _(y/n)._ You are a poor, simple-minded mate whose only goal in life is to satisfy this skeleton monster.

This shouldn’t be too challenging. You pretended in front of your friends for years to prevent them from ever suspecting there was anything wrong with you. Even on days when it felt like your world was falling apart, you could turn up your lips, force a laugh, and utter that all too familiar phrase: _“I’m fine.”_

And they believed you.

_Just take a deep breath…_

_Count to ten…_

_Let the show begin._

You force yourself to appear bashful, swirling the water in front of you in circles with a fingertip. “I…I just wanted to be near you. Even without my soul, being so far away…it didn’t feel right.”

His gaze softens when you bite your bottom lip. “aw, sweetheart.” He cups one of your cheeks in his hands. “sometimes i have to leave, do what needs to be done to support us. but i’ll never be gone long. i’ll always come back to you at the end of the day.”

The yearning to flinch away from the contact is strong. This is going to be harder than you thought. But you steel yourself for the next actions that need to be performed for this scene.

_What would an understanding mate say?_

“I…I know…” You turn your head in his direction, and give a hesitant grin. Not a smile; _never_ a smile. Broad smiles involve teeth, and if they’re not genuine, they don’t look right. Unbelievable.

_Keep your lips sealed, but not too tight. Tilt one side of the face ever so slightly. Asymmetry adds a hint of wariness. Make him think you’re trying to let down your guard, but aren’t sure you’re doing it right._

“You work so hard for me, Sans. I don’t deserve that…not after how horrible I was to you…”

His mouth parts slightly. He quickly recovers by forcing it into a grimace and dipping a finger in your oasis. You know he’s trying to distract you when he insists it’s ‘starting to get too cool,’ in a rush of words.

But you don’t miss the hint of blue tinge that blossoms on his cheekbones. As he removes your dripping self from the water, a swell of accomplishment crows victoriously inside you.

_There you go. You’re getting the hang of this._

****

After being redressed, you spend the rest of the day settled in front of the television. Your skin is mostly back to a rosy red color, but Sans still keeps you swaddled up in blankets. Now that you’re more awake and alert, the reek of sweat is unbearable. They smell like _him_.

One has a dark red stain positioned atop your shoulder that you’re afraid to touch. The sight sends your stomach, full of a bowl of hot soup that Sans recently spoon fed you, roiling. Mostly composed of broth, the meal was the first food he’s provided that hasn’t made you want to vomit as soon as it touched your lips. It would be a shame to lose it and make a mess all over everything. This charade is going to require all the energy you can muster.

Aforementioned monster has propped your feet up on the coffee table, and is tending to them. At the moment, he is set to work bandaging them with extreme precision. Before, he was separating each toe with a tiny amount of gauze.

Seeing your toes spread out like that makes you think of salons. It’s been a while since you had a pedicure. You wonder what Sans would say if you asked him for a bottle of nail polish.

_Probably that the fumes wouldn’t be good for you. That you don’t need to hide your toes with artificial color; your toes are the most perfect part of you. That he’s got a foot fetish, solely for your toes._

The welcome distraction sends a snort of laughter through your nose, which you try to hide behind a cough when Sans turns to look at you. “what’s funny?”

“N…nothing.” You gesture aimlessly towards the television. You don’t even recognize the show, and you haven’t been paying any attention to it.

Sans doesn’t push questioning though, and finishes by rolling a pair of fuzzy socks onto your feet. Afterward, he moves to sit beside you on the couch, where he pulls a small bottle of lotion from his shorts pocket. Without asking, he begins to smooth it over the bare skin on your nearest arm and hand.

Despite his closeness, the combination of smooth, repetitive movements, refreshing aloe vera scent, and the drone from the television are making you drowsy. It’s impossible to stop the yawn that forms.

Sans gives your shoulder a gentle jostle as your eyelids begin to flicker. “not so fast, sweetheart. you can’t fall asleep yet. there’s still the matter of your punishment.”

Punishment? That term wakes you right up, removing all past humor. You nearly died out there. Can’t he consider that punishment enough?

He laughs at your frown. “don’t give me that look.” As he cups your chin and tilts your face to look at him, his expression turns serious. “even if you didn’t mean to, you scared me, sweetheart. there’s gotta be a consequence for that.”

Oh god. What is he going to do this time?

“but,” Sans continues, “i figure, last night and today have been pretty rough on you already. so, i’ll give you a choice. behind the cabin, i’ve got a storage shed. you can either spend tonight sleeping in there, or…”

Your heart sinks. What could be worse than sleeping outside and risking your skin refreezing with re-exposure? That could lead to you needing amputation!

“…you can prove you’re sorry to me.”

You blink. Did you hear that correctly?

“Wh…what?”

Sans laughs and tugs the closest earlobe. “are your ears still frozen, sweetheart? i said, you can prove you’re sorry.”

Now that he’s confirmed he said what you thought he said, the option to take seems blaringly obvious. Taking a deep breath, you pout your lips, and place a hand on top of San’s thighbone. You make sure to keep your voice soft and ashamed when you finally speak.

“I’m…I’m _so_ sorry, Sans. It was stupid for me to go outside without you and not consider how that would make you feel. I’ll never do anything like that ever again.” There’s some truth to it. Running into the woods didn’t help once; trying a second time would be the definition of insanity.

Sans clasps your hand in both of his and gives his head a solemn shake.

“oh, sweetheart. that was a pretty little apology, but you can’t possibly think that’s enough of a demonstration.”

You said you were sorry. What else does he want?

_Did you not make it convincing enough?_

The smirk that builds on his skull is filled with a dark mischief you do _not_ like the sight of. You feel like a piece of meat he’s thinking of the best method how to devour. 

“your mouth can’t just be good for apologizing. i bet you gave some pretty good _oral_ reports while in school.”

When your reaction remains the same, he continues making jokes.

“you’re not _dicking_ me around, are you?”

“you hurt me, sweetheart. i might just have to lie down somewhere and _lick_ my wounds.”

“the fact that you’re not understanding me really _blows_ my mind.”

Finally, after that last pun, you notice the theme.

As your eyes widen, Sans cackles with delight and slaps his kneecap. “ding, ding ding, we have a winner folks!”

Dread threatens to swallow you whole.

You wish you had chosen the shed.

When you don’t move, Sans spreads his legs and smacks his thigh bones. “well? come on sweetheart. it’s not _hard_.”

Millions of excuses are piling inside you. You’ve never done this before. You’re worried about sexually transmitted infections. You’re allergic to semen! But you can’t use any of them. This is a test. He’s determining whether you’re really starting to let your guard down, or putting up a façade for survival.

He _cannot_ find out this is a façade.

It takes you a long time to maneuver off the couch and into position without putting any pressure on the soles of your feet. By the time you’re on your knees in front of him, there’s already a significant bulge in his shorts.

Each inch you slide the zipper down brings you one step closer to breaking down.

Breathing through your nose, you remind yourself that you’ve seen his dick before. Hell, it’s even touched you before.

It’s so much worse in person.

There’s not even any underwear to hide the appendage between his legs. It falls out of his shorts, and is definitely _not_ made of bone. It’s fleshy, and long, and the girth is massive, and if all of that wasn’t enough to deal with, it’s _blue_. What fresh hell is this?

You’re close enough to the potentially radioactive disaster to see the intermingled veins and arteries that work to keep it erect; you feel like you’re about to pass out.

Sans is still waiting. From the way he’s starting to fidget, he’s clearly getting impatient.

You can do this. No, fuck ‘can.’ Can is for things someone wants to do. This is an order, a responsibility. You _have_ to do this.

Bracing yourself, you slowly lean forward, and stick your tongue out to lick. As soon as it makes contact with the foreskin, you have to force your eyes to remain open. The groan that Sans releases churns the soup in your stomach.

After you drag your tongue upward, you start to retract to repeat the action. But before you can go too far, Sans leans forward and grabs the hair on top of your head. He tuts at your stiffened position. 

“you can do better than that, sweetheart. come on, take the _plunge_.”

A second later, he shoves forward without any hesitation.

The phallus’ intrusion is so sudden you hardly have time to breathe or recover yourself. Your gag reflex immediately triggers. Your soul _screams,_ just like it did when he fingered you.

_This is wrong; you knew this was coming, but you had no idea it would feel so wrong; he promised no sex before the ceremony, he swore it. He swore, he swore, he **swore** …_

Sans doesn’t seem to notice, as he is drawing back, preparing to go again. Too caught up in the moment, in his own pleasure.

“aw, yeah, that’s it, sweetheart. take my cock. you’re hungry for it, aren’t cha?”

His words come out in pants, and when he surges forward again, this time he pushes even deeper. You pucker your lips to try to get some grip, with the hopes that this will slow him down. But it only urges him on.

“come on baby; it’s all for you. just for you.”

_Don’t bite down, don’t bite down, don’t bite down…_

Nausea swims through your system, and you try to dissuade it by focusing on the number of loose threads on Sans’ jacket. Every time he moves, they move with him, so you end up having to start over after each thrust. After the fifth attempt, you give up.

_Remember, you have to act like you want this…don’t think about **who** you’re with, think about what you’re doing. Focus on the con. _

As he slips into a steady rhythm, your head bobs along with it, trying to match his pace. Relaxing your throat muscles is an effort, as all they want to do is lock up, but you finally manage it. Small breaths through your nose become an absolute must. Caution precedes every motion involving your tongue and teeth as they tackle and tease this foreign intrusion. 

Sans grunts like an absolute pig. Whenever he’s not making lewd sounds, he’s coming up with new names to call you.

_His bitch._

_His slut._

_His whore._

Every inch deeper, another piece of you chips away. You become a shell for this slug to inhabit until it gets bored.

 _His_ shell. Always his. Never your own thing.

After what feels like an eternity, Sans says what you’ve been longing for since even before this started.

“fuck, sweetheart, i think…i’m gonna…hrrgh!”

His final drive into your throat ends with streams of hot ejaculate adding to the lubricant in your oral cavity. When you heave to try to expel the clotting droplets, Sans pulls your hair in warning.

“ _swallow_ ,” he growls, eagerly leaning forward to watch.

You try. You try so hard. But the feel of his slime sliding down your throat makes you feel like you’re suffocating. Drowning in a pool of loss. You can’t hold out any longer. Everything starts to spew out of you.

When he releases your hair and _mercifully_ removes himself from your mouth, you fall forward. As he tucks himself back into his shorts, all you can do is gasp and choke, desperate for more air. Apologies spill out with your sputters without any acting required.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Salty tears mix with the saltier mess spilling down your face and landing on the floor. It smears when you move to hide yourself from him, bending into a shapeless lump.

Sans gently pries your arms from off your head. “it’s alright, sweetheart. you did so well, considering that was your first time. i’m so _proud_ of you…”

Continuing to hide your face, his praises dissolve into muffles under your racing thoughts. He’s not angry. He doesn’t think you’ve disobeyed him. You passed his test.

_You are still you. Just not when you’re with him. This is what must be done to survive._

Tears whittled away, you peer up, one eye making direct contact with his never-ending smile. The light in his socket is engorged, the brightest you’ve ever seen it.

“i’d give you time to get off too, but this is supposed to be a punishment. don’t fret though; we’ll have other opportunities. it’s like that old saying goes. _practice makes perfect_.”

_The show goes on…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were to make the playlist for this story available, would people be interested in that? I don't have it in any particular order, it's just songs I listen to that make me think of certain characters, put me in certain scenes, etc. Let me know if you'd be interested in that to have to listen to while reading!  
> Or, if there are songs that you think of while reading this, I'm curious as to what they are!
> 
> See you in Chapter 12!


	12. Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans tells Y/N that they will be expecting some company. Meanwhile, Y/N is dealing with some unwelcome company of her own...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, this chapter gave me some trouble in planning! But I think I got it figured out, and I'm really excited for some of the ideas that came from this!
> 
> Warnings/Tags: Some mentions of past abuse and self-harm, but nothing really that directly happens in this chapter. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! I can't wait to read your comments!

If Amy puts her foot down on the accelerator any harder, her convertible’s wheels are going to lift off the road.

Her smile is the widest you’ve ever seen it, teeth flashing the same pristine white as the paint job on the car. Catchy pop music from her stereo mingles with the chime of Jessie’s voice from the back seat as she tries to sing along. Her tone is off, and the lyrics soon dissolve into giggles. It soars through the open rooftop, where the same wind that rustles your hair will carry it off to another part of the world.

Someone out there is going to absorb that sound in the air they breathe. They are going to have a piece of this experience and yet never even know that it happened.

Andrew leans over the back of your chair. “Where are we going?!”

“I have no idea!” Your road trips never start with set destinations.

“Onward to adventure!” Amy trills, and you throw your arms up and let out a whoop of agreement. That draws out a hearty laugh from Andrew, and your head turns to return his smile.

You’ve never felt so happy. So free.

He begins to lean forward, and as the distance between your faces closes, his lips purse.

Just when they start to graze your own, you blink.

Blinding darkness.

That’s what surrounds you now. Everything is gone.

Not just hidden in shadows; this is different from being awake at night and trying to make out shapes in an ill-lit vicinity after an adjustment period.

This sort of blackness is all-consuming. It makes you wonder if anything you saw before existed at all. If the experience you thought you were living through even happened.

Jabbing pain from a finger to the eye confirms they are indeed open, though deep down you knew that was never the problem.

“Hello?”

Empty silence is the only response. It seems to stretch to the end of time, filling every part of this void. There’s no way to tell how far it really goes. You don’t dare step forward. The fear of stepping off a ledge and falling forever is crippling. There isn’t even true ground under your feet. Your body just sort of hovers in place.

“Where am I?”

There’s not even an echo.

Are you even alive anymore?

Then, just as you’re about to try calling out again, there’s something.

There’s still no source of light, but a breeze of sound drifts past. It seems to come at you in all directions, so it’s impossible to tell its true source.

At first, it’s nothing but a soft rasp that scratches your eardrums on the way to your brain. A moment later it repeats, a little louder this time.

“Is someone there?”

The drone doesn’t change. Every time the whispery cadence starts to end, it repeats before it can fully die down. The volume steadily grows.

When it reaches a level that’s slightly uncomfortable, you pick up a hint of articulation. There’s no familiarity to the words; whatever you’re hearing is in a language you’ve never heard before.

Your fingernails dig into the palms of your hands. If this is a dream, this is the only time you allow yourself to think about your old life, what you want to go back to. Now it’s being ripped away, just like everything else.

“Give them back.”

The delicate rhythm of unknown vowels and consonants makes no indication it heard you.

You raise your own voice, trying to speak over it.

“I said _, give them back_.”

The underlying threat in your tone does nothing. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Give them _BACK_!”

The tide of sound hits like a cannonball to the chest. Newfound urgency drives it forward, attacking you from everywhere. You swing your arms, but the feeble efforts do nothing to drive away the swarm of barraging notes. The only source of defense is to increase your own volume.

You shout, and scream, and wail your battle cry until it feels like your lungs are about to burst. But every time, your words get swallowed up in the cacophony.

The sound goes past the point of uncomfortable. Now it’s so loud, it’s excruciating. The darkness starts to quake under the raw power surrounding you. You grip your head, which wants to split apart. Your ears must be bleeding by now.

The space shrinks around you, and the onset of claustrophobia makes you feel like you’re going insane.

There’s nothing you can do. You try anyway.

“ _GIVE THEM BACK_!”

“ _(Y/N)!"_

Colors burst into view as you burst through the invisible barrier and bolt awake.

Shaky gasps of air help bring the world into focus. Eyes wide open, the first thing to come clear is Sans’ face, looming above yours. His bony hands grip your shoulders in an iron-tight hold.

Red light gushes out of his left socket. Leaning forward, with his mouth tightly twisted, he looks almost…concerned?

You scrunch your eyes to make sure you’re seeing things properly. “Wha…What’s wrong?”

He lets loose a shaky breathe at the garbled string of syllables coming from your lips, though he doesn’t pull back or release you.

“you were mumbling in your sleep, sweetheart. started flailing your arms and shouting.”

Fear soaks you through. The chance that Sans can somehow sense when you’re thinking about your old life and misinterpret it as disloyalty is why you only allow yourself to relive memories in dreams. They’re moments when you have no control. Anything can happen.

While this oftentimes leads to magnificent fantasies, right now the outcome feels like it’s building to a terrible fate. What had he heard you say?

“it was all nonsense. didn’t even sound human.” One hand releases to rest on your sweat-soaked forehead. “you’re a little warm. are you feeling okay?”

Relief steadies your breathing and wakes you further. Now that you can think clearly, you’re back in full acting mode. “I’m fine. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

The statement is meant to convince you as much as it is for him. Thankfully, after a moment, his grip loosens. “okay.”

Knowing he’s satisfied, you try to roll onto your side to fall back asleep. But Sans keeps you in your supine position.

“nuh uh, sweetheart. no time for sleeping in today. i’ve got an announcement. we’re gonna have some company tonight.”

Company? Your heart sinks.

“Who…who’s coming?”

Sans’ eye light flickers in a mockery of a wink. “it’s a surprise. but you’ve got a lot of work to do to get this place ready. he’ll be arriving tonight in time for dinner, and then he’ll probably leave the day after tomorrow.”

Crawling out of bed, he extends a hand to pull you up. Hesitantly, you sit up and accept his help in standing. Though the blisters on your feet have finally begun to heal over the past few weeks, you suspect the nerve damage may be permanent.

The first steps you take are little more than stumbles. Sans uses a combination of his brute strength and magic to keep you upright until you grow steadier.

“tomorrow will be our first Christmas spent as mates. aren’t you excited, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” Your answer is automatic. “I can hardly _stand_ the excitement.”

The joke has its intended effect; Sans laughs and squeezes you to his side as he guides you to the kitchen. “better hold off on those when our guest arrives. jokes drive him crazy.”

Crazy? What is enough to count as crazy in Sans’ warped mind?

You force yourself to pick at the breakfast set in front of you, mind too busy whirling with possibilities of who could be coming. Whoever it is must be someone Sans trusts to be smart enough not to let you go.

Is it an accomplice of some sort? You didn’t think he had anyone else working with him.

Maybe he’s gotten tired of you, and he’s planning on replacing you with another girl.

He said tomorrow would be your first Christmas together. Maybe he meant first and _last_.

“food for dinner tonight is on the bottom shelf in the fridge. i’m gonna be out for most of the day, picking up stuff to make this place a little more festive. you want me to bring back anything specific? a favorite food, decorations, anything like that?”

It takes you a moment to figure out that Sans is waiting for you to provide an answer. You can’t even think about what you enjoy during the holidays right now.

“M…maybe some flowers? Poinsettas are nice this time of year.”

His silence confirms that he has no idea what you’re talking about. You struggle to come up with a description.

“Uh, they look sort of like stars? The flowers look a lot bigger than they actually are, because some of the leaves look like petals. There’s green ones, but the rest grow this really pretty dark shade of red—”

“ **not red**.”

Sans’ growl cuts you off. In less than a second, his relaxed smile is replaced by a scowl. The ugly expression mars his skull and you wither under the shadow produced by his body hunching over you.

You rush to correct your mistake before he lashes out. “I mean, not all of them grow red. You can get them in orange, pink…maybe you can find a white one to match your soul…that would be really nice, don’t you think?”

Though you’ve gotten better at choosing your words over the past few weeks, there have still been a few slip ups that resulted in a slap across the face, or a hard shove that knocks the wind from your chest. Apologies almost always calm him down afterward, but when those don’t remove the tension, step two is desperate babbling. It’s meant to distract him; the longer you ramble, the greater the chances he’ll forget whatever unintentionally made him angry.

When all else fails, the last resort is the suggestion of sex. That never fails to improve his mood. Thankfully, this time you don’t need to go that far.

Eventually his shoulders relax. “i’ll see what i can do.” His smile is back; it terrifies you that he can act like the last few minutes didn’t even happen.

Your voice is mercifully tremor-free when you respond. “Thank you.” 

He swoops in and kisses you, tongue sweeping against your own in a slow, steady rhythm. Before you can try to reciprocate, he pulls away. A string of blue saliva connects your mouths that you long to break.

“i love you sweetheart.”

“You too Sans…” While your acting has improved, you still don’t use the ‘L’ word. It’s the one word you can never bring yourself to utter. Even his name is easier to spit out. 

Sans doesn’t seem to notice, granting you one more, much quicker, kiss before teleporting off and leaving you alone. Time to get started on your own work.

When you were still healing and all you had were your thoughts to entertain you, the need for physical pain to drive away the disgust and rage was great. Light scratches and pinches worked best, subtle deviations in your skin that healed before Sans could even notice they were there.

Once you could walk and do more, that need diminished. Keeping busy still proves to be crucial. You’re so busy _doing_ that you have no time for _feeling_.

Gradually, what started as a simple childhood game of dress up has morphed into a masterpiece performance.

Challenging new recipes get attempted so the task of cooking doesn’t become monotonous. The most inconspicuous nooks and crannies in the cabin are found and cleaned. When Sans is horny and insists the only thing that can dissuade his urges is to stuff his fingers inside you, you don’t fight it.

He makes you perform other sexual acts too, things that make your soul wail. To ignore it, they become puzzles. All your focus pours into finding what to do to make him emit the sounds that indicate he’s close to finishing.

You’re the spitting image of a perfect mate. Tonight will be no exception.

Is he expecting something else? Is that why he said you were expecting company?

That is the thought that torments you as you dive into the chores. This could all be another one of his elaborate tests. But on the off chance that he truly is bringing someone else here, who could it be?

The possibilities your imagination comes up with grow worse and worse, but they keep your drive up. When you’re finally finished, every inch of the house becomes spotless. The meat in the oven is seasoned and will take another hour to finish cooking at least. The rest of the food sits in pots on the stove, ready to boil a little closer to dinnertime.

It’s only when you stop moving that the burning discomfort in your feet grows noticeable. Despite all the worry you wrestle with, as you sink into a chair, you can’t stop your eyes from slipping shut.

This time, you and your friends are on a beach when you get sucked into the endless void. There’s no moment of silence once you enter. The hoarse rasp hits as soon as you are finished being thrust through. You skip meaningless questions and get right to the point.

“Who’s there?”

The noise continues like you didn’t say anything at all. You try something a little more direct.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

There’s a quiet pause. Is this progress? Or have you somehow messed up and driven the source away?

Just when you’re starting to think you’ve made it disappear, the whisper starts up again. It’s the same unfamiliar language, but this time as it is spoken, orbs of white light flicker in front of your vision. They stop producing after you have two rows hovering in front of your face.

As the sound continues, for each moment that could be a potential word, one of the orbs flashes. When the volume increases, the orbs enlarge, until they aren’t just shapeless blobs. They’re glowing symbols.

“W̸̱̤̭̗̓̂̓͂͝h̴̡̼̽̋̕o̸̩̳͌̑͌̾ ̴̗͑ȃ̸͍͓̲̭͋̊̆̒r̶̙͊̓e̴̼̭̩̲̲͆̓ ̴̡̦̮̳̟̈͌̈́͌y̶͇̍o̴̧̓͝ȕ̵͈̜̊͒?̷̡̅ ”

"W̷̡̘͖͙͓͝h̶̩̠̬̙̓̌͠o̸̖͚͖͇̽̏̃ ̴͕̥̿̐̊d̴̼̭̱̝̭̎͋͌̒̀ó̶̥͗̆̃͐ ̶̬̓̅͘͜y̴͇̣̪̞̆̽õ̸͔͉͖̏u̸̯̾ ̷͈̤̘̝̰͠f̸̫͇̖͐̀̕͠i̴̦̎́̾g̷̻͔̐͌͑͝h̷̢̼̀t̷̺͎̬̅͌̕͠ͅ ̶̢̘̒͑̿̚͝ͅf̷̙͒͌̔̋̊o̴̟̯ř̸͕̰̝̫̳͑̈̍?̸̡̧̠̉͗͒͌"̸͍̘͋͛̀

You stare at the strings of shapes as they flicker and dim in front of you. Some are familiar, others are not, but either way, their meaning is unclear.

“I don’t know what this means.”

The symbols burn brighter as the voice shouts with what seems to be insistency. This is useless.

“Look, if you’re going to keep tearing away the only thing that’s keeping me alive, can’t you talk to me in English?”

A new sound hisses in your ear, and the associated symbols feel much more threatening than the first ones did.

"̵̹̜͎͑͠ Ă̸͓͙̻͇͒r̸̹̟͙̼͑̇̌e̵̢̗̩̯͆͂̃͘ ̶̢̜̬̞͗̐̑͝ÿ̷̻́͜ȏ̸̥̖̘̟̏u̸͍̒̀͌̃̄ ̸̹̱͙̯̋̎š̸̠̳̥̫̈̈́͠ű̶̝̻̻r̴͍͕͓̀̍̒̉̕e̷̛̲̓͋̓ ̶̡̨̥̌̕y̷̖̜̠̋̃ỏ̴̻̟̹̅̊̈́u̵̝͑̓'̶̝̄͑̂r̶̹̫̹͐̋̈́e̴͔̭̯̪̐̈́̋ ̶̖̹̲͕̼̄̇̐͝a̶̡̛̩͙̥̍̓̀̚l̶̦͂̉i̶̲͔̻̾v̴̟̼̂̕e̴͍͗͠?̴̧̠͋

The shift is so abrupt it feels like you’ve offended something. Your soul seizes like some phantom hand has reached inside of you and squeezed it. Before you can apologize, your body grows weighted. Then, you plummet. Tumbling, down, down, down, deeper into the abyss of this nothingness.

It doesn’t stop until the scent of smoke jolts you awake.

You tear into the kitchen and rip the oven door open to check. Thankfully, the meat looks fine; the smell most likely caused by some blackened drippings on the floor of the oven. 

As you’re stabilizing your breath, Sans pops back into the room.

“sweetheart? i’m back. something smells delicious…why are you still in your pajamas?”

Suddenly there’s a loud thump, and Sans whips your trembling body around. You note something spilling from one of the bags he dropped to the floor. Sans pays them no attention.

“what happened?” he demands, eyes darting all over your body, searching for any sign of trauma or injury. “did you burn yourself? what’s wrong, sweetheart? are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”

The images from your dream are still burned into your mind, and you shake your head to dislodge them.

“I…I’m fine. Some hair must have gotten into my eyes. I thought I saw another mouse. I was probably just seeing things.”

Rather than looking down at the floor, when Sans brushes your bangs away, you meet his narrowed gaze. Your hair has gotten significantly longer in the time since you first arrived here. While it used to barely pass your clavicle, it now reaches your armpits.

“well, we can’t have that,” Sans murmurs, spinning you around and directing you to a kitchen chair. “sit down.”

Quietly, you obey, watching as he rushes around the kitchen.

“we don’t have a lot of time left; i’ll have to work quickly.” He throws a mass of fabric from one of the bags at you. “put that on.”

As he continues to rustle and unlock cupboards and drawers, you unfold the shimmery sapphire fabric. It’s a dress. The top is off the shoulder, and there’s a slit in the long, draping skirt that would allow one leg to peek out if you stand the right way.

It’s not skimpy like the other clothes he’s put you in. It’s elegant. You’d consider it beautiful if it weren’t from him.

Is it possible that he’s trying to change? Or is he dressing you up to try to impress someone?

Once you finish zipping up the back, Sans approaches. He wields a pair of rusty scissors.

They’re the sharpest thing you’ve seen in this cabin. Earlier, you couldn’t even properly cut the vegetables. You had to resort to snapping them in half in your hands and then using a plastic blade to thin the slices. 

If you acted quickly enough, could you snatch them away?

You don’t want to.

You stiffen as Sans guides the open shears close to your neck. And snips.

The snap of the sharpened edges coming together is the loudest thing in the room. A chunk of blonde falls to the floor below you. He’s not needlessly hacking. Every time a section of hair is grasped between his finger bones, he’s careful not to pull. Sometimes he tilts your head in one direction or another to inspect the job’s precision.

It’s a surprisingly intimate experience, trusting him to angle the tool and find the areas he wants to shorten without cutting you in the process. Sans doesn’t speak for the entire time he works around you. The longer he cuts, the more you ease back in your chair.

Finally, the sound of snipping ceases. Sans sets the scissors down on the table. Then he just stares. You stare back, conflicting emotions wrestling inside of you.

He’s not ogling or leering like he usually does. His entire expression is soft, from the turn of his mouth to the magic swirling in his eyes. You don’t feel dirty under his quiet evaluation right now, but you wouldn’t exactly say you feel comfortable either.

Is this…affection?

His hand lifts to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. You resist the urge to hide your face, not wanting to disturb this peaceful exchange.

“stars, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and you try to hide the building warmth in your cheeks.

“he’s gonna love you.”

You do _not_ like the sound of that.

The reminder that the two of you are not going to be alone much longer comes in the form of three sharp knocks on the cabin door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The strike-through lines were meant to be written in symbols, but the site put them into letters unfortunately. If anyone knows a way to change that, it would be cool to hear. If not, that's alright. 
> 
> Thank you all for giving this story a chance!


	13. First Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N and Sans celebrate their first Christmas together, and Y/N considers opening up to him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering adjusting the story summary, because I don't know how happy I am with it. Trouble is, I'm no good at summaries, lol.   
> I hope people are still enjoying this story; I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, because it definitely deals with some hard hitting themes and issues. But I am still really enjoying writing it, and I am so so grateful to all those who give it a chance, and those who stick with it chapter after chapter. Y'all are amazing, and I can't wait to read what you think of this new chapter! <3
> 
> Please mind the tags!  
> Warnings/Tags: Some talk of religion, mentions of sexual acts, though not graphically described (Dry humping, petting, edging), violence, verbal/physical/psychological abuse

The first thing you note about the skeleton at your door is his height. He stands at least seven feet tall.

The second? He is _loud_. 

“SANS!” The stranger doesn’t waste a second waiting to be invited in. As soon as the door is open a smidge, he barges through. “IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU!”

His boisterous shouting shakes the walls when he sweeps Sans off his feet and into a hug. Sans chokes out his response as he is swung from side to side. “good to see you too, bro.”

While the two are preoccupied, you leap out of your chair and slip behind it. Gripping the back, you watch the exchange as it unfolds. When the taller skeleton finally releases Sans and stomps the snow from his boots, the floor underneath your own feet trembles. You sink into a crouch to keep steady.

“I AM SO EXCITED! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN! WE WILL DO PUZZLES, WATCH MOVIES, AND TOMORROW, I AM GOING TO COOK THE BIGGEST--”

“hey bro?” How Sans is able to cut off this new skeleton, you’ll never know, but somehow his lower tone gets through. “i know you’re excited and have a lotta plans. but i gotta introduce you to someone first.”

He gestures towards the kitchen. The other skeleton’s head whips to the side so quickly, you swear you hear his neck crack. His sunken eyes immediately locate your hiding place behind the chair. Even with the bars acting as a barrier between you, his gaze bores into you like laser beams.

“WOWIE! SANS, HER SOUL IS SO BRIGHT!!!”

Sans grins with pride. “Paps, i’d like you to meet _(y/n)_. my soulmate.” He waves his hand, beckoning you to approach. “come here sweetheart. you aren’t being a very polite host for our guest.”

You can’t move. Body rooted in place, all you can do is stare at this beast in front of you. 

“DO NOT LET MY GREATNESS SCARE YOU, TINY HUMAN! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS PLEASED TO FINALLY MEET YOU!”

Before you can even attempt a response, he charges towards you. Like an animal of prey spotted by a predator, you prepare for the moment he decides to pounce.

If you collapse and play dead, would that keep him at bay?

You’re not given the chance to find out. He wrangles you into his arms and picks you up as easily as if you were a ragdoll. Like Sans, he’s strong, but it’s a different kind of strong. It almost seems he doesn’t realize he possesses this strength. 

With your abductor, every move made is deliberate, calculated. If he wants you to hurt, there’s no other option. You hurt.

This skeleton’s actions seem spur of the moment, charged mostly by his openly bared emotions. The consequences are a gamble; any resulting injury is just a happy accident.

“SOMETHING SMELLS DELICIOUS!!!”

His grip as he presses you against his metal chest plate is like a vise. You can barely breathe, forced to gulp out your response. “The…turkey’s almost…done…”

“NO, THAT IS NOT IT. IT IS…SOMETHING ELSE…”

His face buries into the top of your head. Is he sniffing your hair?!

Blue materializes around you. There’s a subtle tingling as the magic pulls you from the skeleton’s grasp and flies you back to Sans. The movement is smooth and gentle, like you’re a cloud.

“sorry bro, this one’s mine.” As soon as you’re close enough to grab his jacket, he wraps his arm around you protectively. “you’ll have to find your own human to nibble on.”

He pulls you close to his side, where you bury your head, grateful to be back with the familiar. Sans rubs your back reassuringly, trying to ease your tremors. “Papyrus is my brother, sweetheart. he would never do anything to hurt you.”

“THAT IS RIGHT, HUMAN!” The skeleton, who you suppose is named Papyrus, pipes up. “I WOULD NEVER DO ANYTHING THAT COULD POTENTIALLY MAKE MY BROTHER UNHAPPY!”

You’re still not one hundred percent certain this skeleton won’t try to eat you if given the opportunity. But Sans’ fingers are starting to dig into your skin, a subtle warning you’re trying his patience. So you peek out at your guest and return his grin, those yours is much more hesitant.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Well, as quiet as it can be when there’s one person doing all the talking. Papryus is non-stop, updating Sans on everything, even the most mundane of facts. Sans seems content just to listen, nodding along and offering a laugh when he finds something funny. You lose track of the conversation very quickly; it jumps from topic to topic so quickly, the easiest thing to do is focus on your food.

“SO WHY IS CHRISTMAS SUCH A BIG DEAL?”

The question comes out of the blue. You don’t even realize it’s directed at you until Sans flicks a pea in your direction with his fork.

“What?”

Papyrus gestures to the television, which is muted, but playing in the background. With the holiday less than a day away, the shows are nothing but a consistent stream of specials and holiday episodes. The one playing now is familiar, a science fiction one about a time-travelling alien that Jessie used to rave about. The reminder of her makes you ache.

“CHRISTMAS. WHY IS IT SO IMPORTANT TO HUMANS UP HERE?”

“Oh.” You fidget in your seat. “Well, it’s a holiday meant to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.”

“WHO?”

Right; being trapped underground for so long, monsters probably don’t share the same religions as humans. You fumble for an explanation. “Humans consider him to be our salvation from all our sins.”

Sans snorts in disdain. “there’s still plenty of sin up here. whatever he did clearly didn’t work.”

That’s leading into an entirely different holiday. You weren’t raised religious, so you only know the basics, but you have a feeling even if you wanted to explain further, he wouldn’t take it seriously. You rush to move on.

“Well, not everybody celebrates Christmas for that reason. Some don’t practice it at all. There are a lot of different holidays in December. But this season is meant to be spent in the company of those you love. It’s right at the end of the year, so we can celebrate peace, joy, and happiness, among other things. It’s a time to let go of our troubles, and hope that things will be better in the New Year.”

Despair claws at your chest. Given your current situation, the traditions hold no appeal.

Let go of your troubles? Who were you kidding? If you couldn’t even properly partake under normal circumstances, how the hell did you expect yourself to hope things will improve given your current company?

You can feel Sans’ sockets on you, so you clear your throat, and take another uneasy bite, watching the events on the television unfold to try to relax.

Papyrus, however, doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort. “WOWIE!” Bits of food spray out past his jagged teeth like wood going through a chipper. “WE USED TO HAVE A HOLIDAY LIKE THAT UNDERGROUND, CALLED GYFTMAS! WE HAVE NOT CELEBRATED IT FOR A VERY LONG TIME…”

His voice trails off. Sans cuts at his turkey with newfound aggression, leaving marks in his paper plate. You offer Papyrus a weak grin of encouragement.

“Well, now that you’re above ground, maybe the government will declare it a statutory holiday. Then you could celebrate it a--”

“hey, Paps, did you know that there’s presents during Christmas?”

Papyrus explodes with excitement at the interruption. As he ponders what he’s going to get tomorrow, Sans darts a look in your direction, and gives a subtle shake of his head.

You don’t say another word for the rest of the night.

*****

Overnight, there’s no strange dreams to torment you, but it’s still not a restful sleep. Papyrus barges into the bedroom before the crack of dawn to wake you, practically vibrating with excitement.

“SANS! HUMAN! WAKE UP, YOU LAZY BONES! THERE’S PRESENTS!!!”

Sure enough, a pile of packages has mysteriously materialized in the living room. Not only that, the entire space has transformed. You have to pause to gawk at the end of the hallway.

Fuzzy stockings hang on the mantle over the fireplace, in which a roaring fire has been built. Strings of white lights nailed to the ceiling and walls twinkle like starlight. A pot of pink poinsettias sits atop the coffee table. The warm scent of cinnamon wafts from the kitchen, tickling your nose.

Last night you hadn’t been sure you could get into the holiday spirit here. But the cabin doesn’t feel like the same place anymore. It’s festive. Magical.

Sans passes you one of the parcels, and as he turns away, you grab his arm. “When did you find the time to do this?”

He winks at you. “wasn’t me, sweetheart. musta been _Sans-ta_ _Claus._ ”

Papyrus immediately starts ripping into the boxes addressed to him, cheering and crying out in gratitude at each treasure inside. You take much greater care with the wrapping paper and bows, afraid that a single out of place tear will rip apart this fantastical illusion.

The first thing you receive is a cookbook, clearly found second hand from the yellowed pages. Next is a thick silver chain necklace that sits tight around your neck when Sans puts it on. Each new thing you uncover varies in quality and price. But it’s clear that thought was put into every single one of them.

The final box has no wrapping paper, and holes cut all over it. “don’t shake it,” Sans cautions as he slides it across the floor to you.

You’re about to ask why when suddenly something inside rustles, causing the box to move on its own. You shriek, and Sans immediately shushes you.

“careful, you’ll scare it.”

It? What is it?

Your answer comes in the form of an eight week old black kitten. It’s piercing yellow eyes burn into yours. Not trusting your sight, you don’t believe it’s real until you scoop its two pound body up. Feeling its warm fur against your skin when you clutch it to your chest, a high-pitched squeal slips loose.

“Sans, he’s precious!”

“she,” he corrects, leaning over to scratch the top of its head. “i thought she might keep you from getting lonely when i have to be away.”

Vibrations from the kitten’s purring stir up adoration in your heart. You’ve always wanted a cat, but your apartment didn’t allow pets, and your previous lifestyle never really left much time for taking care of something other than yourself. You’d never even bought yourself a house plant. 

‘Thank you’ doesn’t feel like enough for everything today. Is it possible that he’s realized all the pain he caused and is trying to make up for it?

“I don’t have anything for you.” Guilt is strong in your worried murmur against the side of his skull.

Sans turns his head to kiss you and adjusts himself so you can lean back against his chest. “having you here is enough, sweetheart.”

Your soul _thump, thump, thumps_ in your chest, but you ignore the feeling and focus on the scrape of Sans’ claw through your shortened hair. For once, his touching you doesn’t make you want to flinch away. 

After all of the gifts have been opened, Sans suggests the three of you go out to cut down a Christmas tree. Despite sitting for most of the morning, the idea of being outside in the cold triggers memories that make your feet ache with pre-anticipated pain.

“Sans…I can’t…”

“oh, right.” He nods in understanding. “you stay here, set up the cat’s stuff. Papyrus, you wanna come with?”

“I WILL STAY AND KEEP THE HUMAN AND HER TINY CREATURE COMPANY.” Everything Papyrus says sounds more like an announcement than casual speaking. “I WOULD LIKE TO GET TO KNOW HER A LITTLE BETTER. BUT FEAR NOT, BROTHER, THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL DEFINITELY HELP WITH DECORATING!”

Sans nods. “Got it. I’ll be back in a little while.”

The silence in the room once Sans leaves is disturbing. Papyrus seems to want you to be the one to initiate the conversation, but you find yourself still intimidated by his size. You try to focus on playing with the kitten and coming up with names in your mind, but you can feel Papyrus’ tiny eyes watching your every move.

Finally, you can’t bear it any longer. Taking a breath, you turn around to face him. “I…I’m sorry I don’t have any gifts prepared for you.”

“DON’T BE RIDICULOUS, HUMAN! YOU HAVE GIVEN ME THE ONE THING I COULD HAVE EVER WANTED!”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Even sitting down with his elbows on his knees, Papyrus towers over you. “DID YOU KNOW SANS USED TO BE A SCIENTIST?”

Sans? The image of the brutish skeleton wearing a lab coat seems absurd. But you don’t understand the change in subject.

“SANS IS VERY SMART!” Papyrus insists, noting the skepticism that must be displayed on your face. “BUT AFTER HE GOT THAT WOUND ON HIS SKULL, HE CHANGED…”

You’d recognize the agonized wringing of hands and fidgeting that comes with self-blame anywhere. Attention peaked, you wait for Papyrus to continue. It takes a moment for him to collect himself. When he starts up again, his voice is a decibel lower.

“WHILE UNDERGROUND, WE WERE ALSO PART OF THE ROYAL GUARD. PART OF OUR DUTIES WAS WE WOULD… _COLLECT_ …HUMAN SOULS. I DIDN’T LIKE IT, BUT I KNEW IT WAS NECESSARY IN ORDER TO BREAK THE BARRIER. 

“BUT ONE DAY A HUMAN FELL WHO WAS…DIFFERENT. THEY TREATED ME LIKE A FRIEND, AND I FOUND I COULDN’T DO MY JOB. SOMEONE I CONSIDERED A VERY DEAR FRIEND FOUND OUT.

“SHE GOT ANGRY, ACCUSED ME OF BEING A TRAITOR, AND ATTACKED. SANS…” He trails off and tugs at his red scarf before allowing himself to continue. “SANS DEFENDED ME. AFTERWARD, HE DID WHAT HAD TO BE DONE TO THE CHILD…”

A shudder wracks through you. You don’t even want to imagine what that entailed.

“It…it sounds like he’s a good older brother.”

Papyrus nods solemnly. “YES, SANS HAS ALWAYS TRIED TO PROTECT ME. EVEN NOW THAT WE ARE ON THE SURFACE. I AM NOT BLIND TO THE TENUOUS RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN MONSTERS AND HUMANS. YET HE TRIES TO SHIELD ME FROM THE HARDSHIP IN THE WORLD.”

He pauses again, but this time his voice sounds hopeful. “LAST NIGHT I SAW ALL THE PHOTOS SANS HAS OF YOU. THAT TELLS ME HE CARES. NOW THAT YOU ARE HERE TO TAKE CARE OF HIM…WHEN HE SMILES, I KNOW HE IS NOT PRETENDING.”

His own crooked smile splits across his skull. Before you can react, he clasps one of your hands between his gloved ones. “YOU ARE GOOD FOR HIM. I CAN SEE THAT.”

“Papyrus…” you falter with your words. If he knew the circumstances that had brought you and his brother together, it would break his soul. Would he even believe you? “I don’t think I’m good for anybody.”

“NONSENSE! YOU BROUGHT HIM BACK TO ME. THANK YOU.”

You don’t have a response for that.

As you open your mouth, Sans opens the door. A pine tree floats in behind him and is lowered into an open corner of the living room.

“hey Paps, there’s a puzzle that needs recalibrating in the forest. think you can help me with it before we start decorating?”

“OF COURSE!” The seriousness is gone, like your conversation never took place. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS THE BEST AT CALIBRATING PUZZLES!”

You watch as they go back outside. They truly look like brothers in this moment. Papyrus runs ahead, and Sans strolls behind. His pace is slow enough to be casual, but keeps him close enough that he can keep an eye on Papyrus.

A sphere of snow rises from the ground and flies forward, striking the back of Papyrus’ head. He whirls around, and at his bewildered expression, you see Sans open his mouth.

He laughs.

The sincerity breaks through the window like a stone and rings loud and clear in the winter atmosphere. Snowballs fly between the two of them, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave some impact if they meet their target. You find yourself smiling as you watch Papyrus whirl his makeshift ammunition with boundless enthusiasm. Sans dodges with expertise, his movements much more care-free than you’ve seen before.

Sans has alluded to the hardships they experienced underground before. You’ve never considered the effects they could have on one’s psyche. Maybe the way he acted in the past wasn’t his fault.

You’re glad you didn’t tell Papyrus the truth. His pure soul deserves to believe there is still good in his family. Especially considering the effort Sans is making.

You said it last night. Christmas is a time to let go of troubles and hope next year will be better. Maybe forgiveness can turn the hope into reality. It had seemed impossible before. But seeing him now…perhaps there’s a chance that you can make him see reason. Convince him to let you go.

You’ll talk to him about it tonight, after you’ve gone to bed. Right now, you’ve got a tree to help decorate…

*****

Turns out, Sans has ideas about how you can repay him for not having a gift earlier. With Papyrus sleeping in the nearby office, the wildest he’s willing to go is a make-out session with some heavy petting and dry humping involved. All clothes stay on, but you end up being brought near the brink of climax more times than you’d care to admit.

When you both finally finish, euphoria from the edging fogs your senses and dulls the throbbing in your heart and soul. The slow return of full oxygen helps concentration return. After Sans removes the pillowcase he stuffed in your mouth at the last minute to muffle your moans, you slump against his side, pondering how best to start off this much-needed conversation.

“Listen, Sans, I—”

“oh crap, i almost forgot!” Sans jumps out of bed and makes his way to the door. His jacket hangs off the doorknob, and he ravages the pockets. Finally, he pulls out a folded scrap of paper. It is triumphantly presented to you when he crawls back under the blankets. “one last present. i think you’re really gonna like this one, sweetheart.”

As you unfold it, you see it’s a newspaper clipping dated from two weeks ago. The headline has been torn off, but a hazy image of your old neighbor smiles up at you.

The words swim in your vision, and it takes multiple attempts to finish reading the few paragraphs.

_"Police have confirmed the cause of death for eighty-one year old Abigail Peterson to be a heart attack brought on by coronary artery disease._

_“Foul play was initially suspected, as one of Peterson’s neighbors, (y/n) (l/n) was found to have gone missing around the date of Peterson’s death. However, a suicide note found inside (l/n)’s apartment has led police to now believe the two events are unrelated._

_"A private memorial service will be held for Peterson on December 15 th. (L/N)’s body has not yet been recovered, and there is no word about a possible memorial service. None of (l/n)’s friends or family members were able to be reached for a comment.”_

Sans grins proudly down over your shoulder. “isn’t that great news? now we don’t have to worry about anybody bothering us.”

The chain around your neck threatens to strangle you. It doesn’t feel like just a necklace anymore. It feels like a collar.

“Why did you do all of this?”

You’re not just talking about today, and Sans seems to understand that. “i know what it’s like to go without, sweetheart.” His fingers trace intricate designs across your skin. “you deserve every pleasure your soul desires. i’m the only one who can give that to you. now i can without any distractions.”

The possibility of asking for release shatters like a glass ornament. He interprets your silence for gratitude, and leans forward to plant a kiss against your lips. They’re still swollen from earlier, but you barely feel the contact.

“i love you, sweetheart.”

When he pulls away, the hope is bright in his eyes. He’s waiting for something.

Resentment and humiliation stab like red hot knives to your back. You were such a moron, allowing yourself to be played so easily! Nearly falling for his brother’s sob story, and for all the affection thrown your way. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, Sans deserved a little happiness after all the hardships he’s undergone.

You’d almost forgiven him. The idea that you had considered sharing a _pinch_ of compassion for his plights makes you sick.

Every single good thing he presented you with was nothing more than a dirty treat meant to condition you like a dog.

It was all to make you complaisant. Make you consider _staying_.

Sans is still waiting.

You _refuse_ to give him his victory.

“You too, Sans.”

He visibly deflates at your answer. Shoulders folding in on themselves, he abruptly turns, yanking the blanket over himself. His body is positioned so his back is to you.

At first, you think that’s it. He’s going to fall asleep, and tomorrow will be another day of acting.

Then the shaking in his bones starts.

Your soul’s pulse of warning comes too late. Sans whirls back to face you so fast you startle. Tumbling out of bed, your head hits the floor with a hard _smack_. Terror spurs you to start crawling, but an invisible hand snatches your ankle and yanks you back with fierce intensity. You scrabble to grab onto something to halt the movement, but there’s nothing available. Too soon, you find yourself flipped onto your back again.

“what do i have to do?” Sans snarls, pinning you underneath him and trapping you between his arms. “what do i have to do to get a little bit of fucking _appreciation_ from you?”

His hot breath mixes with the sweat that soaks your face, and you cower.

“I…I’m sorry…”

“do you know how easy it would have been for me to pin everything on one of those worthless piles of shit you used to call friends? how well do you think that simpleton _Andrew_ would hold up in prison?”

All sensation drains from your face, and it drives Sans’ rant on. “i’ve honored our contract. yet you still hold back? _why?_ what are you waiting for? just tell me you _love_ me!”

“I’m sorry; you’re right, you’re always right. I do, you know I do! Please, Sans…you’re hurting me…”

A twinge of something pulls in your chest. You consider using this chance to say the word he clearly wants to hear. He’d know you were just trying to please him, but maybe it’ll calm him down. Your hand flickers toward him to try to make him listen, but he grabs it and shoves it down, no longer hearing a word you say. You hear the snap of your wrist like a broken pencil when it makes contact with the floor. White hot pain shoots down your arm and momentarily blinds you.

It’s too late to go back now.

“no one else could ever love you the way i do. who would ever want to, with your scars?” He rips the sleeve of your dress down and sneers at the sight before him. “scars you made because you hate yourself so much you have to slice yourself up just to feel something. you hide like a _coward_ behind them. just like all the other humans, except they hide behind their sense of superiority. they think they’re better than everyone else, when in actuality, they’re _not_.”

He’s done a lot of unspeakable things. But right now, this moment, is the most evil, the most _monstrous_ you’ve ever seen him.

You understand why he hates humans. Sometimes you hate your species too. But why does he have to take it all out on you?

“Then why do you want me?” You choke on the words. “If I’m such a coward, surely you can do better. You said it yourself, I’m…”

_Inferior…_

He leans so close that your foreheads touch. “because,” he seethes, “i’m the only one who can hold all your broken pieces together. you just have to be willing to _let me_.”

Then, he disappears, leaving you to tremble on the hard wooden floor.

Cradling your fractured wrist, you grip the article so hard it starts to tear in the middle. You can’t stop staring at it.

Sans has not changed. The only thing different about your circumstances is now, nobody is looking for you.

Surely your friends don't believe you killed yourself?

Unless you were never as good of an actress as you had thought…

You should never have allowed yourself to get your hopes up. Don’t you know by now that dreaming is dangerous?

Sans doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

In the morning, just as you start to fall asleep, he wakes you with a hard nudge on the shoulder from his foot. The movement sends barbs of pain through your broken wrist, and you barely stifle a cry. 

“get up, sweetheart. Papyrus has got a belated Christmas present for you.”

His jovial tone is back. Still, you don’t argue or fight as he guides you out of the house. He leads you around the back, where you see an old metal shed. He opens the door, and shoves you in first, blocking the doorway with his body.

Axes, knives, and other forms of barbaric torture equipment hangs on the walls. Workbenches sit covered in meat processing equipment and bear traps. Rust and old blood stains everything. The air reeks of rot. It’s like something out of a horror movie.

But the worst thing you see lies in the very back. Papyrus looms over it with a cheerful smile on his skull. 

Bound with rope and blindfolded on the floor with a fresh pool of red growing underneath.

It’s another woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Plays ominous music*   
> Don't cha just love cliff hangers? I know I do...
> 
> Hope to see you in Chapter 14! Thank you again for all the support!


	14. Four. Seven. Eight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the new addition, Sans' game grows more twisted. But is this fourth person a true player, or a pawn meant to get something out of Y/N?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try something a little different with the tags for this chapter. To avoid spoilers for the chapter, I'll be putting them in the end notes. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, if you are concerned about them, feel free take a look before proceeding to read. Fair warning, this is a heavy chapter. 
> 
> Thank you all again so much for the support! From the comments left on the last chapter, it seems it left you all clinging for more! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and look forward to reading your comments. 
> 
> PLEASE SEE THE BOTTOM END NOTES FOR THE TAGS/WARNINGS. This is NOT a happy story!

Four seconds in through the nose. For fresh air to remind you the world still spins.

Seven seconds to hold the breath inside your body. It stabilizes your internal systems and temporarily freezes your brain.

Eight seconds out through the mouth. To expel the air and with it, every thought that strove to bring you to the deepest despair.

When you were younger, you came across this breathing technique online. It claimed to help with anxiety, stress, and falling asleep.

Being a mere child, you were desperate for anything that might quell the brutal bombardments that seemed to pop up at random for no reason other than to torment. It didn’t always work, and you later found other, less conventional, methods that had a greater effect. But the counting has stuck with you.

“YOU ARE A GENIUS, SANS! THE GREAT PAPYRUS NEVER CONSIDERED USING HIS CAR AS A TRAP FOR HUMANS! SHE CAME RIGHT TO US!”

Four. Seven. Eight.

Repeat.

That’s the rhythm playing out in your mind right now.

Four seconds to convince yourself the body lying in front of you is real and not an illusion brought on by lack of sleep.

Seven seconds allowed to consider what this means.

_I’m not alone anymore._

_Two heads are better than one at coming up with escape plans. Might make the execution easier._

_Two people means more for them to try to control._

Eight seconds before the self-revulsion remembers to seep in, dashing the thoughts to pieces.

Why the hell would you wish your fate on another human being?

_~~If things went wrong maybe at least one of us could make it out alive…~~ _

“Oh my god…What have you _done_?”

Four anguished steps to reach her body, hogtied with strong cord. The rise and fall in her chest and shoulders affirm she lives, but the movement is faint. 

“Miss?”

Seven fraying threads on the blindfold that prevents you from knowing whether she’s awake or not. Tentatively you shake her by the shoulder. She doesn’t stir or make any indication your words reached her.

The concrete floor digs into your knees, but you barely feel the sting. “Please, say something…”

Eight wet saliva spots soak through the scrap of burlap that serves as her gag. The dark shade of her smeared lipstick stains the outer cloth edges, giving the impression her mouth is bleeding.

Red stains your vision. The pool beneath her is getting so big…

_Where the hell is that blood coming from?_

“she’s doped up with magic, sweetheart; she can’t hear you.”

You should be used to how casually Sans treats the situation. Yet you still despise how he can so vehemently consider something so _wrong_ to be normal. 

Closing the door behind you, he comes up to inspect this new captive. Rays of light seep through cracks in the shed and hit her like spotlights. She’s the new star. Everyone’s focus is on her.

“nothing she’s not used to, i’m sure.”

Four highlighted track marks located in the crooks of her arms to emphasize his point. Darkened scabs in the veins that serve to tell part of her story. The story of a hard life about to get infinitely worse.

You don’t even know her name, but the instinct to protect grows. You need to get these cords off…

“then again, this stuff is a hundred times stronger than the shit she’s used to. this is probably the best trip she’ll ever have in her lifetime. if she could, i bet she’d be thanking us for this experience.”

Seven cervical vertebrae you so desperately want to wrap your hands around. Tackling the knots is primary focus number one. After that, his neck becomes fair game for strangulation.

“she’ll be fine, sweetheart. stop trying to play the _heroin_.”

Eight shards of broken bone threaten to split through your skin. The pressure points shatter any daydreams of violence. You can barely clench a proper fist with the swelling alone.

Sans doesn’t even try to stop your futile efforts. Simple logic forces you to abandonment. Unknotting rope is not a one-hand job, and the fibers are too thick to gnaw through.

Were you to sit up, so many sharp blades would be accessible. They mock you with their closeness. The chances of being able to wield one in any capacity are non-existent. You wouldn’t get the chance to even graze a handle, let alone sever rope, skin, or bone. You need another plan.

Eight. The size of her shoes. One of them has a broken heel.

Seven. How many inches stand between your hand and the tiny metal rod that could serve as salvation.

Four. The number of fingers that nearly get crushed under the weight of Papyrus’ steel toed boot when you start to reach for it.

“FEAR NOT, HUMAN! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS THE GREATEST AT STOMPING COACROACHES!”

Your reflexes are barely quick enough. The sudden movement results in a hiss through your teeth.

Papyrus glances down. His sockets lengthen at the sight of your crooked and inflamed wrist.

“SANS! YOUR SOULMATE IS BROKEN!”

Sans lifts your arm to finally inspect the damage he caused. Searing pain masks the disgust as he murmurs at a volume low enough that Papyrus doesn’t pick up on it.

“ _carpal’s_ a bitch, ain’t it, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t even care.

Four times he kisses your fingertips in false reverence before letting you yank your hand back. His next response is louder, directed at his brother. 

“heh, she’s a little clumsy sometimes, Paps. things got a little heated while we were canoodling, and she fell outta bed. not to worry, i’ll fix my _hamate_ right up after we’re done here.”

Seven seconds you allow yourself to imagine how good it would feel to plunge that heel into his socket. The amount of time it takes for his joke to sink in for Papyrus.

Eight words squawked in frustration. “SANS! NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR JOKES!”

The shriek makes the throb of a growing lump on the back of your head worsen. Thinking was already a challenge, but you fight through the struggle. There must be something you can do to save this defenseless woman.

“Please…There must be some mistake. Papyrus, this can’t be your soulmate. She just can’t be.”

That has to be why this stranger is here, isn’t it? Papyrus saw how happy his brother was yesterday and decided that he wanted the same thing?

Does insanity just run like a blight, spoiling the fruit on the branch of this family tree?

“FOOLISH HUMAN! THE GREAT PAPYRUS KNOWS THAT THIS IS NOT HIS SOULMATE!”

“not that she knew that…” Sans scoffs and stares down at the unconscious woman like she’s a bug. “she walked right up to our car, leaned into the window, and asked if we were looking for a good time. can you believe that, sweetheart? she actually thought she was good enough for my little brother.”

So if she isn’t here for Papyrus…is she here for Sans?

Is this all part of some sick, twisted game?

Why drag another human who didn’t even know the game existed to be a player?

It’s over. You’re here. He _won_.

Oh god. Is that it? Has he stopped deriving his sick pleasure from your pain? Is he bored?

Did you fuck up so badly last night that his well of patience finally ran dry?

Does he feel the need to _replace_ you?

This is how it ends. Game over.

You forget how to breathe.

Four. Seven. Eight. Four. Seven. Eight. Fourseveneight. _Fourseveneightfourseveneightfourseveneightfourseveneightfourseveneightfourseveneightfourseveneight…_

Seven grows non-existent. Eight cuts in half, so your exhale is just as futile as your inhale.

Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four. Four.

Four words constrict your throat as it threatens to implode.

Never mind what they’ve done.

What have you done?

_What have you done?_

“oh, sweetheart, no. no, no, no.”

You’re in such delirium, you don’t even realize the words came out aloud until your body is encased by cotton sleeves. Filled with bone arms too skinny to properly fill out the insides, the fabric does nothing to warm the chill inside you. You’re pulled towards a chest humming from gentle consolidations that don’t help at all.

“no matter what you do, i could never replace you. i’ve only got eyes for you. my mate. my _precious_ mate.”

So this isn’t part of the punishment for ‘acting out’ last night.

“Then _why_?” The words taste like bile, but you force them out through gritted teeth anyway. “ _Why are you doing this_?” 

“THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS HEARD WHAT YOUR SOUL CAN DO!”

The outburst snaps you out of your stupor better than any slap across the face could have.

Still shaking from the hyperventilation, you turn to face Papyrus. One of his legs is extended forward, but his stance is rigid. Had he considered lunging to your aid?

Slowly your breaths steady enough that you can spit out a confused, “ _What_?”

“I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT YOU CAN CHANGE THE COLOR OF THE SOULS OF OTHER HUMANS. I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO SEE IT!”

Disbelief clouds your judgement. The madness of the situation grounds you.

She was here for a _magic trick_?

Was he _serious_?

The answer slips out before you have time to think about the repercussions.

“No.”

“NO?”

“no?”

Sans’ face does not fall like his brother’s does. His voice is much lower, barely a whisper. He doesn’t add any additional wording; he says the exact same thing as Papyrus. But that the one syllable spoken by him increases your dread ten-fold.

The reason?

It’s accompanied by the start of a pull on your own soul.

_You do not want it out again!_

“Please, Sans,” You beg, trying to stall the anguishing process. “Please, please, don’t make me do this. She hasn’t done anything. She’s innocent.”

You’ve used your ability on strangers before. That’s not the issue. The issue is, you have no _reason_ to use it. It’s reserved solely for moments to make the world a better place for others. She hasn’t done anything that you know of to warrant such drastic action.

Even if you reversed the change immediately afterward, to use the power for show or bragging rights would be a _tremendous_ violation.

“innocent?”

Your soul settles as a rumble builds in Sans’ stomach area. Soon, his entire ribcage is rattling. Amid the clattering, he releases you, and you immediately scurry away, fearful of a repeat of what happened the last time you saw him shaking.

He doesn’t even appear to notice. He’s too busy slouching forward. Short chuffs of breath condense into tiny clouds in the cold air inside the shed. 

“heh…hehe…”

Is he…?

_“bwahahaha!!!”_

The sudden explosion of laughter catches you off guard, and you jump. Heart in your throat, all you can do is watch as he leans backward. His spine extends so far, you expect it to crack and force him to bend into an upside-down ‘U.’

Sans clutches his abdomen and gasps before another round spills out through his teeth. _“ahahahahahahahahahahahaaa!!!!”_

“NYEH HEH HEH!”

Now Papyrus has joined him, though you suspect he doesn’t understand the joke and just wants to partake in his brother’s glee. Zestful laughter fills every air molecule in this enclosed space. The mania makes your head spin.

It doesn’t end soon enough. Even after the two of them have calmed down, your ears ring with the noise.

“oh, sweetheart.” Sans wipes his skull for non-existent tears. “there’s no such thing as an _innocent_ human.”

He shakes his head as though to drive away what he clearly deems an entirely ridiculous notion before continuing on.

“you know what she told us her name was? _Candy_. is that her real name? most likely not. it’s probably some cheap ploy to make herself more appealing to the men she whores herself out to. she’s not even bothering to wait for her soulmate.”

How dare he presume to know this woman? From the sounds of it, all she was doing was trying to make a living the only way she was able. And he took advantage of that.

He’s _always taking advantage_ of any weakness he sniffs out.

“it’s not like she wasn’t asking for this. standing on the corner in the middle of the night, begging to be picked up by any random stranger with the right amount of money. no affection or dedication required. how many families and relationships you think have fallen apart because of her? you call _that_ innocent?”

To blame her for the infidelity of lustful partners who refuse to commit is shameful. He doesn’t know what circumstances drove her to the life she lived. You refuse to contribute to her suffering.

Sans emits a heavy sigh as you cross your arms across your chest and give a final shake of your head. Your soul throbs in agreement.

“well, if you’re not comfortable doing it to a nobody from the streets, maybe you’ll be more willing with somebody you know…but then i guess we don’t need _her_ anymore, do we?”

The double-edged threat does not pass you by as he bends into a squat beside the body. Back hunched, he crushes her chin and right temple between his hands.

“i _was_ going to drive her right back where we found her afterward. but I guess this works too.”

Fresh blood spills out from where his claws dig in. It spills down her neck and stains her matted auburn hair.

“nobody will know she’s gone.”

He starts to tighten his grip, tilting her head up towards the ceiling. A blood-thirsty expression comes over his skull.

“this’ll be a _snap_.”

“ _Stop_!”

Sans pauses his movements and stares up at you. His red eye light flares with expectancy.

“Yes…?”

The word drags out in a lazy drawl, inviting you to continue. You bite your tongue before allowing the hoarse rasp of defeat to shred your throat.

“I’ll do it.”

Sans’ smile grows maddeningly wide. It’s a cheap victory. He knew you would succumb, expected it all along. He was just waiting for you to say it aloud.

He gives you no chance to take it back. In no time at all, a green heart hovers at arms-length from you.

It doesn’t glow with the intensity of other souls you’ve observed over the years. It is dimmed and pale, almost the color of mint leaves. Is that because she’s unconscious? Or have her life experiences slowly been sapping the kindness from her?

You don’t know. But if you do this, and Sans lets her go, then she has a chance to start anew. Maybe in the end this will help her more than harm her.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted to use this for. To fight for others. To help…

You stare at the buoyant shape with such intent you can almost see right through to its core. Knowing what to shift it to is the easy part; the color comes to you immediately.

The woman still hasn’t moved on her own. She puts up no physical fight. Despite this, the three dimensions of her soul resist. Every time a blotch starts to form, the process seems to reverse.

Maybe it’s a mercy she’s asleep or high for this; perhaps the euphoria of swimming in her subconscious will numb the discomfort.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you push harder.

Your own soul seems conflicted. It thrashes inside of you, waging a silent war with itself and your mind. Arguments against the deed clash with reminders of what the color you’re thinking of stands for.

_This is not right._

_This is what’s best for her. She will endure._

_This is wrong._

_This will make her stronger. She will be filled with resolve._

When the violet hue finally starts to stick, your head pounds with a splitting headache. This is the hardest transformation you’ve ever attempted; as the color spreads, it feels like the power is being _wrung_ from your soul. Surrender is so tempting, but turning back now is impossible.

_This is not fair._

_This has to be done so she can_ persevere.

Finally, the soul gives another hearty pulse and waves of purple flow and ebb from the source. Papyrus extends an arm to touch them, but they diminish before reaching his phalanges. His jawbone has dropped, and his eye sockets have extended.

“Wowie…”

You sink to your knees, completely drained from the exertion. Usually, at the end of one of these, you feel a sense of accomplishment. A noble pride that you’ve done something right.

This time, you feel nothing.

Candy’s (You hate calling her that, but it feels wrong to keep referring to her as an unnamed woman) limbs fall limp and free as Sans undoes her bonds.

“you did good, sweetheart.”

The praise feels unwarranted. It sits like an extra layer of filth atop your skin.

Sans reaches up to untie the gag and blindfold.

“i said i’d let her go. a promise is a promise.”

As the fabric falls away, Candy’s full face is finally revealed. A heavy layer of makeup applied to conceal her dark shadows and other imperfections has smudged. Infected sores mix with the peppering of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Yet despite all the wear aging her, there’s a youth yearning to be uncovered and regained. She can’t be more than nineteen years old.

_She can start over now. She can go back to her old name, or rebirth herself with a new one._

As you reach to cup her cheek, her slow breathes accelerate into frantic panting. Her hands clutch her chest through her skintight dress, and her eyelids shoot up.

Your gazes lock. The connection is so strong, not even the axe hanging on the wall above you could sever it.

Cracked lips move feebly. You have to strain to hear her. Terror drips from every word.

“It hurts…I don’t want to…”

Her sentence is cut off by one last sharp and sudden intake of breath. As it seeps from her lungs, her entire body sags limp. Her new position reveals an open gash in her head. The source of all the blood she lies in. The scent of her flowery perfume is slowly replaced with that of the early onset of rigor mortis.

The fearful expression which captured your eyes for only about ten seconds shifts to a blank stare. Her irises are the same shade of green as her soul used to be.

At the very moment that soul shatters, you feel your own do the same.

“oops. musta overdosed her. guess she wasn’t fine after all. too bad.”

You don’t even care if Sans senses the rage churning in you right now. Without thought, you raise your fists, and slam them down on the concrete floor. The skin of your knuckles scrape, resulting in raw, bloody smears on both your hands and the floor. Your broken wrist bones bend and pierce in warning of the further damage you could cause. Still you repeat the action. Over, and over and over again.

You don’t care about the risks; you _want_ the damage, you _crave_ it. You want your outer appearance to match the disfigurement of your cracked and battered soul.

The screams that rip through your throat overshadow the physical pain. The mental pain feels more real than that of your mortal body ever could.

_Fuck you Sans!_

_Fuck you Sans!_

_“Fuck you Sans!”_

Even after your arms are seized and wrenched behind your back to prevent further mutilation, you continue to shred your vocal cords. There’s no longer distinguishable words.

Just pure agony.

That’s all there is anymore.

As your vision goes dark from oxygen depletion, you hear one last comment from Sans before you totally fade:

_“well, best not let it go to waste…”_

*****

The first thing you feel when you come to is a persistent itch on your left arm. When you move to scratch it, fingernails meet hard plaster. When you try to pry it off, the casted arm is gently moved so your hand rests atop your right shoulder.

“gotta keep this on until your wrist heals, sweetheart.”

You refuse to open your eyes; if you don’t look at him, then he’s not here. Even thinking his name feels vile. But the scrape of plastic silverware against a paper plate elicits a shudder. You curse your body for the betrayal, for acknowledging his existence.

“Papyrus was worried, so he whipped up a little something to help with the healing. you’ll like it; it’s his special recipe. open up, say ahhhh….”

The approaching smell of tomato sauce and cheese makes you nauseous. When the fork prongs press against your lips, you purse them together firmly.

“now’s not the time to be picky. it would make him really happy if you ate this. when my bro is happy, i’m happy. you want me to be happy, don’t you sweetheart?”

Begrudgingly, you open your lips and allow the forkful to be inserted in your mouth.

You immediately wish you hadn’t.

The noodles are undercooked. The sauce is bitter and filled with strange clots that break apart between your teeth.

But the worst is the meatballs. Chewy and rubbery, they’re unlike any other meat you’ve ever had before. You can’t even swallow the one Sans tries to feed you. While the rest of the food you eventually choke down, this your body forces you to spit out. When he tries to refeed it to you, you latch your lips together again.

“come on, sweetheart. this is the best part. they’re super sweet. like _candy_.”

You don’t know what he’s on, but there is nothing sweet about whatever you’d had in your mouth.

“ _iris_ you’d give it another chance. try to have an _optic-mistic_ point of view; i’m sure you’ll like it. i’d _retina_ money on it.”

What the hell is he on about?

You can’t stand this any longer.

When you see what he’s trying to feed you, you immediately try to purge your stomach of its contents. But Sans grabs your fingers and prevents them from entering your mouth as you retch and sob and scream in hysteria all over again.

Four. The number of leaves on a four leaf clover. Some consider it to be a symbol of luck. What little luck you had seems to have run out. If you ever had any at all.

Seven. Considered perfect in many of the religions who worship a god who has so clearly abandoned you. 

Eight. The number which, when laid on its side, becomes infinity. How long you want Sans to suffer for…

How long you clearly are meant to suffer for.

The eyes that looked at you so pleadingly mere hours ago now stare unseeing atop a pile of spaghetti noodles. One of them is partially chewed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS/WARNINGS for this chapter: Mentions of drug use (both forced and not), references to prostitution and slut-shaming, a panic attack, blood and bodily injuries, threats and manipulation, character death, and cannibalism (though unknown until it is too late)
> 
> I look forward to reading your comments and finding out what you think of this chapter. I hope to hear from you and see you in Chapter 15!


	15. Selfish Generosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans has never had a problem being selfish with you. But now, as he deliberates on his relationship with you, he wonders about the best steps to take moving forward...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out everybody, we've got another Sans POV chapter coming your way!  
> I never realized until writing this how perfect songs from musicals can be to write to. One of the big ones I listened to for this chapter was "You Will Still Be Mine" from Waitress-The Musical. 
> 
> There's not a lot to tag for this chapter, but I'll still include one in the end notes just to be on the safe side.   
> I can't wait to see what everyone thinks! Thank you again for all the kind words and support.

Sans is beginning to lose his patience. 

He sits by your bedside, watching your chest rise and fall in the continuous rhythm of sleep. It had taken two doses of magic to send you into a state of catatonia. Confusion gnaws at his soul like it’s the bone of a drumstick. His memories are the bits of meat clinging to the sides. The longer he dwells on them, the more rotted they become, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

You had been doing so _well_. What went wrong?

The last few weeks had been sensational _(heh, or should he say, sans-ational?)_. True effort was put into keeping the house clean. The meals were prepped with a care he hadn’t known you possessed. In quiet moments, you’d been the one to initiate kisses.

And your body….stars, it had been _heavenly_ exploring your body and feeling you explore his. You had met every one of his touches with what had seemed to be a growing confidence.

He should have known that feeling like he was living a dream couldn’t be a good sign. Dreams are never permanent.

_eventually, you wake up…_

He hadn’t meant to grow suspicious; the gradual slip of his rose-colored glasses was a by-product of years contending with disappointment. But it allowed him to notice things.

Like how when you smiled, you never showed your teeth. Or if he told a joke, you would laugh, but it felt more like a polite response than genuine enjoyment.

They were minor details, easy to shrug off as nothing but tricks of the light. Until they started showing up consistently. Turned into a pattern.

All in all, those little repeated offenses made it feel like you were holding yourself back.

The big wake-up ‘spark moment’ had been when he realized the word ‘love’ had never escaped your lips. Not once.

His eyes roam over you, landing on the ivory colored cast. A pang hits his heart at the sight; he hadn’t meant to be so rough with you last night. When you’d tried to touch him, his plan had been to sprain it, not entirely fracture it. To teach you to pay better attention when he was talking.

But the thought that you were afraid to allow yourself to love him had driven him out of his mind. _why?..._

It _still_ made him crazy to think about. He couldn’t understand it. After everything he’s done for you, all the times he’s told you how much you mean to him. Why would the idea of returning that love generate such fear?

_why?_

_why?_

_why?_

The hand wrapped in plaster starts to slide off the pillows Sans had piled underneath to keep it elevated. When he reaches to gently reposition it, a groan sneaks up from inside him. No matter how many times he experiences it, having your skin against his bones never stops feeling divine.

Aside from your soul, your outer layer is Sans’ favorite part of your body. No two areas are alike. Decorated with ink and bruises, birthmarks and fibrous scars, it’s a canvas waiting for the next of life’s brush strokes. It’s so delicate, so…fragile.

Yet no matter what you endure, pain or pleasure, the delicate surface always heals. Sans marvels at how whenever it does, you manage to remain so _soft_.

That’s not the only contradiction accenting your beautiful image. The plaster wrapped around your limb creates a lovely paradox lying alongside the donned fancy jewelry. Treasures and punishments, all delivered by him. Every part meant to remind you of the most important fact.

You were _his_.

A shadow jumps onto the bed, and Sans almost shoots it with a harsh blast of magic. But it’s just the damn cat. Sans can’t _stand_ cats. The fact that he hasn’t booted it out into the forest yet is further proof that he’ll do anything for you.

The creature cautiously sniffs at your plate, but before it can take a bite, Sans swats it away. Though he barely touches it, it hisses, arching its back before turning to curl up beside you. It chooses to lie against the side of your head farthest away from Sans. A cord-like tail flicks protectively against your unkempt hair.

Irritation bristles as he watches it nuzzle against you so easily. That should be his body next to you. But he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might risk disturbing your induced slumber.

The cat’s presence reminds him of the food leftover from what he’d tried to give you earlier. The round organs were bound to be cold now. They never tasted as good when they were cold.

You’d _wasted_ them. And Papyrus had worked _so hard_ to prepare this meal for you. He’d even sprinkled a dash of magic over the dish to make it edible for you. Neither of them had wanted to risk upsetting your stomach. When it came to you, sickness was the last thing Sans needed to deal with right now. He had enough trouble piled on his plate.

As his invisible pupils stare at the braised eyeballs, your screams ring in his skull again.

_just when they’d finally started to fade…_

Sans knows he can’t pull the sounds out physically, but it still takes everything in him not to reach up and try.

Eyeballs are not a conventional food item for humans. Sans is well aware of that. He understands the mere sight of them can make some squeamish. That’s not the problem. It’s not even that such raw emotion was able to come out of your tiny human body.

What makes him want to yank and risk increasing the size of the hole in his skull most is what you’d uttered while still inside the shed.

_“Fuck you Sans!”_

Had you even been aware you were screaming the obscenity out loud? Sans doesn’t think you were. But you had, all while bashing your fists and embedding your flesh in the cracks on the floor. The repeated impact had caused such damage, especially to your already injured arm. Before applying the cast, your hand had been in such appalling shape, he hadn’t believed he’d be able to save it.

In fact, his mind had danced with the idea he’d have to amputate the arm at the elbow. Fortunately, magic and yellow flowers were quite a potent combination when it came to healing. So he hadn’t had to resort to such drastic measures. One small mercy Sans was grateful he could grant you.

But it isn’t the physical damage he’s concerned about now. With three simple words, it feels like the two of you are back to square one. The beginning. And if there’s one thing Sans hates more than cats, it’s beginnings.

They remind him of being underground. Of the resets...

_don’t overreact. it’s not another reset._

Because you’re asleep, there’s little resistance when he pulls your soul out. He doesn’t keep it long. Just enough time is spent to confirm his bite mark is still present.

Indeed, it remains. In fact, it’s scarred over quite nicely. Seeing the raised tissue over where his teeth had chomped down reminds him of the possessiveness that had taken over when he’d made the decision to mark you. Desire is addictive; it refills him, nearly tips him over the edge, and makes him consider doing it again.

_see? everything’s fine. she was just upset about the girl. humans never handle death well._

_she didn’t really mean fuck ‘you.’_

_~~don’t be a moron; of course she did.~~ _

_she loves you._

_~~she hates you.~~ _

~~~~_she_ has _to love you…_

A persistent vibration in his jacket pocket jerks Sans out of his rumination. The number lit up on the screen ignites a dark scowl. He slides his finger bone up the screen to accept the call with mounting aggression.

“the _fuck_ do you want, Tori?”

“Ah, Sans…” The sound of the goat monster’s cheery tone grates on his fried nerves. “Last we spoke, you said you had to post-pone the ceremony because something had come up. I assume it was something to do with your mate. I have not heard from you in a few weeks, so I wanted to call and check-up. How is she?”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint Sans has not to crush his phone between his fingers.

“she’s fine. no thanks to you.”

The goat monster’s voice quavers when she speaks again, startled by his curtness. “I…I beg your pardon?”

Sans’s voice is tight as he struggles to maintain his composure. “see, a funny thing happened last night. my bro asked if he could see my soulmate change another human’s soul color. so we picked up a human, and things didn’t go well. one thing led to another, and my mate had a breakdown. mangled herself up pretty bad. i’m shocked her soul didn’t shatter.”

Toriel gasps. “Oh my word!”

Sans ignores her concern. He’s on his feet now, pacing around the bedroom. A healthy distance is kept from the bed, to keep you safe in case he erupts. 

“now, see, what’s funny about that is, i told my bro i had a soulmate. what i didn’t tell him was what she could do. in fact, i’ve only told one other monster that. so, riddle me this, Toriel…”

Sans pauses his pacing. The phone presses against his teeth, which gnash together hard enough that he can almost feel them start to chip. 

“how the _fuck_ did he find out?”

There’s a long silence before Toriel speaks up again. Her voice is small and sheepish now.

“Sans, I…I am sorry. I was not aware you had not shared that information with him. I thought—”

“yeah, that’s the problem, ain’t it, Tori?” Sans couldn’t be more uninterested in her worthless excuses. “do me a favor. next time you think something, keep it to yourself. or your dust is gonna be flying on the next light breeze.”

“I…I understand.”

“good.” Sans fires his rage in a drawn out breath through his nasal cavity. “i’ll call when i need your help with the soul-bonding ceremony. until then, i don’t want to hear from you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response.

As he slams his phone down, a gentle knock sounds on the door. When he opens it, Papyrus stands, wiping blood off his hands with a rag.

Knowing that even his brother’s quietest voice could potentially cause you to stir, Sans lifts a finger to his teeth and steps out of the bedroom. When he closes the door behind him, he leaves a crack ajar, to listen in case you need him.

At the slightest change to the even cadence of your breaths, he would be right back by your side, ready to serve and care for you.

Neither of the skeletons speak until they reach the kitchen, where Sans opens the fridge. After this debacle, he needs a bottle of ketchup to take the edge off. Maybe two.

The force of pulling the fridge door results in the top section swinging open as well. Sans pauses before closing it to inspect his brother’s work.

Any past excess freezer space is now filled with brown paper packages of meat. The sight lifts his spirits and makes his mouth water. This was enough to last for months. Papyrus was so meticulous in everything he did, there’d probably been barely anything left over to discard.

Speaking of Papyrus…

“thanks for doing all the butcher work, Paps.” Sans felt bad he’d left his brother with all the work. But the idea of leaving his mate had filled him with such anxiety he hadn’t even allowed himself to sleep. Weary bones ached for a chance for rejuvenation, but the fear of waking up to a corpse in the bed pumped enough adrenaline to keep him up. It had taken an entire hour of watching her sleep before he’d felt comfortable removing his finger from the pulse point on her neck. 

“i know you hate how messy it is, so take whatever you want when you leave.” Underground, Papyrus had always favored the lean cuts, while Sans had been partial to the breasts and thighs. While Sans’ preferences clearly hadn’t changed, he wondered if that was the case for his brother. 

“NONSENSE!” Papyrus waves the offer away as Sans takes a seat at the table. “THE GREAT PAPYRUS WAS MORE THAN HAPPY TO HELP WHILE YOU WERE CARING FOR YOUR SOULMATE.” His frontal bone furrows. “BY THE WAY, HOW IS SHE?”

Sans takes a long sip from his bottle while deciding how best to answer. There was no sense in getting his brother worked up and worried over what’d already been done. “She’ll be fine, Paps. Plenty of magic, a day of rest spent with her soulmate, and she’ll be good as new.”

Papyrus traces spirals atop the surface of the table with a fingerbone. “IN TRUTH…I FEEL RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENED.”

Immediately Sans grabs him by the shoulder and forces him to meet his gaze. “Papyrus, no. don’t think like that. you’re not to blame. Toriel shouldn’t have gone blabbing.”

In truth, it wasn’t even Toriel’s fault.

It was _his_.

Sans had chosen Candy for her anonymity. Potential police attraction would be a non-existent concern, which would make disposal of the body easier. It made her the perfect candidate.

Except he’d forgotten to take into account the fact that she was another woman. Sharing the same sex chromosomes meant she was someone you could potentially grow attached to. Plus, it made her body weaker and less tolerable to drugs and magic.

She was supposed to die _after_ Sans had removed her from the shed.

He should have known better.

But it made Sans feel better to pin it all on Toriel.

“Outta curiosity, why did she tell you about my mate’s gift anyway?”

Papyrus pauses his drawing. When he puts his hand away, long thin scratches are carved into the table. “IN TRUTH, I THINK SHE WAS TRYING TO GIVE ME HOPE.”

“whaddya mean, bro?”

Papyrus tugs at the scarf around his neck. “THE HUMANS HAVE A BIG ELECTION COMING UP THIS YEAR.”

Sans was aware. He didn’t watch much news here, not wanting to stress you with needless concerns. He wasn’t particularly fond of politics, _especially_ not human politics. But whenever he went to get groceries or run other errands in the city, it was all that seemed to surround him.

“THERE ARE SOME CANDIDATES WHO ARE TALKING ABOUT GETTING RID OF THE RIGHTS OF MONSTERS IF THEY ARE ELECTED INTO OFFICE.” Papyrus is getting fidgety. “WE COULD GET SENT BACK UNDERGROUND IF THAT HAPPENS.”

There’s no way in hell Sans will let that happen to his brother. “if that happens, you can just come and live here with me and _(y/n)._ No human knows this place exists.”

Papyrus slams his hands down on the table in an uncharacteristic display of anger. “THAT IS NOT THE POINT, SANS!”

His voice cracks saying Sans’ name, and all Sans can think to do is rub his brother’s shoulder as he starts to tremble. He understands how scared his brother must feel. From his talk over Christmas, it sounded like Papyrus was starting to create a life for himself on the surface. Sans had found out he’d finally obtained a job that he seemed to love as a security officer in one of the malls. He had new friends. A home, that, while it wasn’t a lot now, Papyrus had big plans for redeveloping.

To have all of that disappear…to end up right back in the position he’d been in before…

It would be just like before the barrier broke.

Papyrus takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I THOUGHT, IF YOUR SOULMATE REALLY COULD CHANGE HUMAN SOULS, THEN SHE COULD HELP.”

Sans tries to speak gently, so as not to further destroy him. “she can’t do it telepathically, Paps. the person has to physically be in front of her.” Even if he used his magic to get away with it, politicians were too well known to go disappearing and not have people find out. The ensuing chaos would only make things worse for monsters.

“I KNOW…I THOUGHT…”

From the way his brother pauses, Sans gets an itching feeling up his spine that he’s not going to like what’s coming next.

“I THOUGHT WE COULD BRING HER TO SOME OF THE RALLIES.”

He was right.

Sans’ answer is instantaneous.

“absolutely not.”

He wasn’t about to bring you into crowds of hundreds or thousands of people. The mere idea was ridiculous. Stupid. Idiotic. A millions reasons why not pound in sync with the ever-increasing pace of his soul’s heartbeat.

_you’d get recognized._

_you’d get taken._

_~~you would try to leave him.~~ _

_~~you would run…~~ _

“THERE ARE MEASURES THAT COULD BE TAKEN TO ENSURE HER SAFETY!”

If Sans shakes his skull any harder, it’s going to detach from his spine. “i’m not going to risk it, Papyrus! it’s way too dangerous!”

“THIS WILL AFFECT EVERY MONSTER, SANS!”

The condensation along the sides of the ketchup bottle could start to steam under the simmering heat of his grip at any moment. 

“i’m not going to pass my mate around for other monsters to use like her power is water in a fucking fountain, Papyrus!” The concept boils the marrow in his bones. “they can’t have her!”

“BUT SANS—”

“she’s _MINE_!”

Sans’ ketchup bottle shatters in his grip. Glass particles rain down onto the kitchen floor. Viscous red sauce coats his hand. The excess drips like blood onto the table, each drop in time with the pounding in his head.

_mine._

_mine._

_mine._

_mine._

He knows he’s being selfish. If there was any other way he could help Papyrus, he’d do in in the blink of an eye-light. Hell, he’d lay down his own life for him. But doing something that could potentially result in him losing his soulmate…

 _Especially_ after what happened earlier…

_~~she’ll leave you the first chance she gets…~~ _

It was unthinkable.

After giving up so much for so many years, he _deserves_ to be a little selfish with the most irreplaceable thing in his life. That’s what Sans should tell Papyrus.

But he can’t bring himself to say that’s his final answer. Seeing his only brother’s normally jovial expression fall into that of desolation makes him feel like the shittiest big brother ever.

All his life, he’s strove to take care of him, and in doing so, allow him to preserve his hope. If he were to lose that, think it got the better of him, it would change him into a different monster.

Sans doesn’t want that to happen.

He inhales deeply to steady himself. “look, i’ll think about it, okay?”

His attention snaps to the bedroom as a moan of distress escapes from the crack in the doorway, so he misses Papyrus’ response.

“i gotta go check on _(y/n)_.”

Papyrus nods and stands. “I SHOULD GET GOING AS WELL. I HAVE A SHIFT AT WORK TOMORROW MORNING I DO NOT WANT TO BE LATE FOR.”

He takes a couple of the smaller meat packages from the freezer and makes his way to the door, where he bends to lace up his boots. As he straightens to full height, he extends his arms and scoops Sans up into a hug that crushes his bones.

It’s not painful; it’s a kind of tightness that reminds him of the simple security that comes with being siblings. No matter what happened, their souls still beat in sync with each other. They still mattered to one another.

When he wraps his bones around his brother’s chest, Sans hopes he knows the feelings are returned.

“love you, bro.”

Papyrus squeezes tighter. “I LOVE YOU TOO, BROTHER.”

After Sans finishes watching his brother’s red car disappear into the trees, he immediately turns and dashes back to the bedroom. You’re still asleep, body in the same position he left you. But your face is scrunched up, and your free fingers are twitching.

“No…”

Sans couldn’t wait until he could wander through your dreams, know your every thought inside and out. It would make understanding you so much easier.

Shushing you gently, Sans strokes the side of your head, watching as your twisted expression relaxes into one of peaceful serenity once more.

_stars, he loves taking care of you…_

After you’ve settled, he still keeps his hand clamped in your hair. Despite the sweat and grime from the shed, your natural scent slips through and calms him.

His mind keeps returning to Papyrus and his idea.

Survival was no longer a buried instinct for Sans. He knew how to hunt and scavenge. How to be ruthless in whatever had to be done. But while he was more than capable of taking care of you without the excesses of human society, he’d promised you the world. That wouldn’t be possible if all monsters lost their rights.

There were ways he could make you unrecognizable to the public…

If only there was some way to ensure you wouldn’t run away…

 _she’s had the purification…she_ must _feel the connection by now…_

_~~maybe the process hadn’t worked…~~ _

_of course it had. reinforcing that connection between the two of you was just moving at a pace slower than expected._

_if only there was a way to speed it along. help it out…_

Despite your scars, despite your poor self-confidence, Sans was willing to love you. He was the only one who ever would. He told you that over, and over again. He knew what it was to have a past that tore you apart inside. But that was behind you now. Here, he would hold you together, and you could do the same for him.

You didn’t have to pose with him. He yearns to see you live the way he’d captured in his photographs. Spontaneous. Expressive.

If only you would let yourself open up. Allow yourself to share in the infatuation he’d had since the first time he laid eyes on you.

Fully give yourself to the relationship…

_you didn’t need to be scared to show him how you felt. how much you love him…_

There had to be some way to make you realize the emotions you’re experiencing are normal.

Maybe there was.

_drastic times call for drastic measures…_

This time, when he pulls your soul out, he’s a little too excited. The rough tug causes a shudder to course through you. The disembodied second heart pulses with vibrant energy, and Sans coaxes his own soul out, maneuvering it to align with yours. 

He could have Toriel swing by later tomorrow to complete the ceremonial requirements. This was the most important part.

He pinches the side of his soul, and a piece crumbles off like dry cheese. As he starts to close the distance, the extension of your being starts to quiver. A repelling force builds the closer Sans tries to shove them together.

“come on sweetheart…no more playing hard to get…”

The battle drains the magic from his bones, leaving them feeling brittle. A charge electrifies the air between you.

_easy does it…_

As the piercing white shard _finally_ latches to your soul, there’s a rush like an atomic bomb has just ignited. Time momentarily freezes. But it’s not success that engulfs Sans’ thoughts when he hears you moan and resettle.

_what was he doing?_

Overwrought with dread, Sans rips the portion back before it can burrow into the core of your soul. Removing it is infinitely easier. The lack of resistance results in a snap like that of a breaking rubber band. Sans’ soul stings as the piece returns to its original destination and he hurriedly shoves both souls into their respective chest cavities.

If you wake with all new emotions and feelings atop the ones you’re already struggling with, it’s just going to add to your confusion. His problems would worsen.

Plus, how could he deny you the chance to participate while conscious? In a sacred ceremony where no expense would be spared to make it as magical an experience as you deserved? 

After waiting for so long to have you, Sans wants nothing more than to treat you like a queen. But perhaps he’s been coming on too strong. You don’t have a lot of experience with affection, giving or receiving it. He supposes that could make his actions up to this point feel a little overwhelming for you.

You’re a butterfly hiding inside a cocoon. You need to be built up gradually. When you see the extent of his tolerance, surely you’ll start to give this link a chance. Only then will you emerge, with ravishing wings, _eager_ to commit to your role.

_dedicated and devoted…_

You won’t fly away. Not because he’s pinned your wings to a corkboard. Because you simply have no desire to.

Then the ceremony can be completed. After that point, when you’re truly bonded, he can subtly bring up Papryus’ idea to you. Maybe.

He’s waited longer than this for things before. He can maintain his patience a little while longer…

The aura of sleep is broken by your nose wrinkling up. Sans can’t tear his gaze away from the adorable sight. Your dainty eyelashes flutter and twitch, as though they can sense the change in the air and are agitated by it.

Shoulders hunched, Sans readies himself for action.

His budding soulmate is waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags/Warnings: Mentions of past death and violence, mentions of cannibalism, talk of politics and racial tension between humans and monsters, an attempted non-consensual partial soul bond. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Will things change for Y/N? Only time will tell...


	16. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N dives into her dreams yet again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings and tags for this chapter are in the End Notes...This chapter is not graphic, but it is a heavy one, so be forewarned. 
> 
> Thank you to all who are reading this, whether this is your first time, or if you've been a continued supporter since Chapter One was first uploaded. I look forward to reading your comments below! Seeing your thoughts and responding to them are a big highlight for me in writing this.

While your sleep sometimes takes you to unfamiliar locations, you can at least count on encountering familiar scenarios. A spontaneous road trip or day at the beach. Once you even dreamt you were seven years old again, at a piano recital. As your fingers danced along the keys, the nerves and agitation had been welcome, because you knew, among the sea of hundreds, your parents were sitting in that audience.

You’ve never ended up in a graveyard before.

At first, the clear blue sky feels out of place. You envision a shroud of fog would be more appropriate for such a setting. Yet the longer you wander through the rows of stone that seem to stretch further than the horizon, the less somber the environment grows.

Though each plot is marked by grey stone, you’re still careful to watch where you tread. Every step risks trampling flowers, squishing a stuffed animal, or crushing candles that have long been extinguished. Trinkets all to honor the people buried here.

In one of the bouquets a withered rose is bent. Its petals point towards the earth, as though its head is hung in sorrow. As you kneel to straighten the broken stem, a thorn pricks you. The sting doesn’t register; the only reason you notice it is because a bead of blood runs down your finger. Before it can drip to the earth, you sloppily shove it into your mouth.

As the familiar taste of iron touches your tongue, you focus on reading the tombstone. Despite the cracks and wear that come from age and weather, every carved word is legible.

It’s a typical epitaph, including the person’s full name, time of life, and relationship titles. What your eyes lock on is the commemoration at the very top.

_“In Loving Memory.”_

This isn’t the first grave you’ve passed that has this phrase carved. Yet the common phrase smolders in your brain. These people, whether real, or just created figments of your imagination, have some way to be remembered after their demise.

Meanwhile, you are not dead. Just gone, hidden away. But the world continues to spin, joyously oblivious to your entrapment. Ready to erase the fact you ever existed from history.

You should feel envy towards these corpses. But you don’t.

Not because being forgotten hurts.

The truth is, you just can’t be bothered to expend the energy required for the emotion.

“She was so…”

Your attention diverts when the sound of Jessie’s voice carries from several feet ahead. Following it, a small group can be made out in the distance. Huddled in a half-circle, the black attire of the seven makes them resemble a cluster of shadows.

As you draw closer, it becomes easier to pick out which back belongs to which person. There’s only one you don’t recognize, who stands at the very end on the left. Nobody turns around at your footsteps, or slides aside to create space. A breeze tousles the hair and clothes around you, but passes right through you.

Even here, in your fragmented subconscious, you cease to properly exist.

To look past the shoulders of those you once considered friends and family, you have to raise yourself up on your tiptoes. You brace yourself, expecting it to hurt. By this point while awake, your feet would normally be weak and tired from the amount of walking you’ve done.

But it doesn’t. The grass doesn’t even tickle.

In fact, nothing hurts right now. Not your feet, nor the thorn wound on your finger. Not even your wrist, which you vaguely remember being in a sorry state before you went under. In this warped reality, you still bear the cast, but the exposed flesh looks perfectly intact.

Once visual is obtained, you see the grave plot in front of you is still open. The marble stone at the head is blank. Yet you know exactly who is to be buried here even before the speaking begins.

“She was so needy.” Andrew spits. The glob of sputum sticks visibly to the sealed coffin.

Amy laughs scornfully alongside Jessie. “If she hadn’t been so desperate for attention, he never would have noticed her. I mean, do you remember what she was wearing that night?”

 _~~You hadn’t thought your club outfit was~~ _ ~~that _revealing…_~~

 _~~Then again, it had been a pair of black skinny jeans and halter top... you~~ _ ~~had _been more exposed than usual…_~~

Your parents shake their heads in disdain alongside Ms. Peterson. “She gave him her phone number after only knowing him for a few minutes _and_ while she was intoxicated,” your mother accuses. “What did she _think_ was going to happen?”

_~~You were just trying to be nice…~~ _

“She should have made a better effort.” The stranger at the end turns her head. Empty black eye sockets reveal her to be Candy. Your guilt makes her pockmarked face look ghoulish.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder, and in doing so, exposes a clump of partially decayed flesh below her earlobe. A visible piece of jawbone shifts as she speaks again. 

“If I were her, I would have fought harder. Made sure no one else got dragged down with me.”

If you’d been properly corporeal, you could easily reach out and shove the person in front of you (your mother) into the open hole in the ground. Storm in front of everyone and scream how nobody else was there, so no one knows a damn thing. Express remorse for all the stupid decisions that have brought you to this point. Break down and apologize for not being good enough to save the ones you’ve gotten hurt along the way.

But what’s the use?

_~~You brought this on yourself…~~ _

Apologies, excuses, all of it is meaningless. Even if they could see or hear you, none of this is real. It wouldn’t change the past or future.

This is the only funeral you’ll ever get; this one inside your broken mind. May as well make the most of it.

The judgmental eulogies seem to be over, though as your father picks up a shovel and scoops up a clump of earth, he emits one very familiar phrase:

“She deserves this.”

Everyone else murmurs it in unison.

You blink, and when you open your eyes, they’re staring up at the roof of the casket. There’s a loud ‘thud,’ followed by a multitude of pattering above your body. Dirt sifts through the grains in the wood, coating you in a fine, uneven layer. The walls close in around you.

Instead of attempting to break out, you welcome the quiet depletion of oxygen in this enclosed space. You let your eyelids drift shut, and silently accept your given sentence. The expectation of opening your eyes again is non-existent.

When you do, and find yourself returned to that abyss you’ve visited in the past, this is the first time you feel relieved to be alone.

It’s not a sensation that lasts long.

The strange symbols are the first things to greet your sight. Flashing and blinking like strobe lights, they only serve to increase the irritation you feel towards death’s betrayal. You’d been expecting a peaceful trip to the afterlife. Not being dumped in this blank space to be bombarded by confusing sounds that feel more like an attack.

“W̵̡̮̞̲̲̏̃h̸̨̰̯̠́ǒ̴͔͚̩̘̯ ̶͙̟̠̾̐ã̷̪̏͛̆ṛ̷̍̂̚ẻ̸̛̝̰͕̗ ̶͕͇̀̓͌̊ÿ̴̖̼̪̙̈́͆͆ͅo̴̦͍̅̊u̴̡̧͇͖̔̕?̷̼̣͖̯̰̍͛͘”

“Ẅ̴̝́͑̕͘ḩ̶̣̞̻̳̑̎̽͐o̸̖͐̀̔̑ ̸̺̄̊͝d̵̺̺̻̈́͗̿̚͜o̵̞͇͖͕͗̓͒̚ ̵̲̮͓̾y̸̨̰̫͎̲͒͒ǒ̴̯̠̈́ủ̷͍͔̤̦̞͝͝ ̷̛̮͍̩̎͌̚͜f̸̠̙̍̈̈́į̸̥̘̾̇̏g̵̬̥̱̠͊̏̊̕͘ḫ̷̨̟̮̊̎̽t̵̺͑͌̇́̊ ̷̦̿̓̎͋f̴̩͚͇͔̥̓͐͘̕͝ô̵͉͋r̸̢̮̀̽?̴̖̟̫̅”

“W̵̡̮̞̲̲̏̃h̸̨̰̯̠́ǒ̴͔͚̩̘̯ ̶͙̟̠̾̐ã̷̪̏͛̆ṛ̷̍̂̚ẻ̸̛̝̰͕̗ ̶͕͇̀̓͌̊ÿ̴̖̼̪̙̈́͆͆ͅo̴̦͍̅̊u̴̡̧͇͖̔̕?̷̼̣͖̯̰̍͛͘”

“Ẅ̴̝́͑̕͘ḩ̶̣̞̻̳̑̎̽͐o̸̖͐̀̔̑ ̸̺̄̊͝d̵̺̺̻̈́͗̿̚͜o̵̞͇͖͕͗̓͒̚ ̵̲̮͓̾y̸̨̰̫͎̲͒͒ǒ̴̯̠̈́ủ̷͍͔̤̦̞͝͝ ̷̛̮͍̩̎͌̚͜f̸̠̙̍̈̈́į̸̥̘̾̇̏g̵̬̥̱̠͊̏̊̕͘ḫ̷̨̟̮̊̎̽t̵̺͑͌̇́̊ ̷̦̿̓̎͋f̴̩͚͇͔̥̓͐͘̕͝ô̵͉͋r̸̢̮̀̽?̴̖̟̫̅”

You press your hands against the shells of your ears and moan. It does nothing to block out the relentless noise surrounding you. It seems to be originating from directly inside your ear canals.

Even the irritation doesn’t stick. After your last outburst while awake, something inside of you has snapped irreparably.

Politeness is not to be bothered with. Your words come out flat and uncaring.

“I don’t know why you bother trying. I still can’t understand you.”

What you once thought ceaseless abruptly cuts off. Just as you start to lower your hands, there’s an abrupt squeal of distortion. The sound shifts like a radio dial being twisted through the stations.

“Q̷̭̩͔͎̦̓̉̎u̵̺͎̘̩̅͌̈́i̵̥̾͋̚ ̸͓͌͘͝ḛ̶̂̍̍̔͑̄ţ̵̄̉͋̂̍e̴̙͆̈́̓͌͜s̵̼͑̾͐̔̄ ̴̹̠͎͍̈́v̷͖̞͌̂͜ö̸͔͗u̷̮͈̯̬̱͝s̵̛̝̝͍̜̅?̸͈̤͎̻͛̀̇͆̀ ̸̖̍P̸̘͌̓͗̃̔o̷̧̲͖̻͓̎u̶̙̎͂̏̊̏r̸̤͈͊̏̊̚ ̸̠̙͔͋̈́q̴͈͉̗͝ú̷͕̣̤̓î̸̡͖̫̮̙ ̵̠̰̖̫͕͂̌̄v̸̯̯̘̗̐o̴̬͗̍̐͠͝ͅû̷̡̼͖̺̦̇̿̎͌s̴̡͔͕͎̥͊̆̽͘ ̸̙͓̈́b̴͉̐̑å̷̪̪̉t̴͈̎t̸̮͇̥̖̫̓͌ẻ̶͍̓͆̔̉ż̴̛͕͉̯̏͘͜-̴̧̂̍͘v̶͔̣͍̈̉̇ọ̸̢͎̟̒͒̇͌̕ụ̷̡̭̘̣͛̂s̷̯͜͠?̸͇̅̐̓̽̚”

“¿̴͉͚͍͚͍͐̇̈́̕Q̸̖̪̆ủ̷̺̦̆̅͑͝ǐ̸̧̟̭̣̝͐̓̎͒é̴̢͙̂̏̕n̴̳͕̱̮̘̈́͒͘ ̵̬̯̥̩͋è̶̯͙̫̥̠r̸̡͔͔̽̀̐ͅȩ̶̺̤̗̟̈́s̸̛̪̹̱̪̖̈́̄̒̚?̴̹̭͝ ̶̘͖͠¿̸̲̈́̏̽P̷̻̈́̓̏̀̓o̵̦̤͈̊̄r̸͙̩̟͌̃̌̆͋ ̸͙͔̘̻̦̎͋̀q̵̘̮̗̎̔u̴͔̖͕̗͑͆̌͒i̵̹̰͗̑̂é̸̩͉͝n̵̡͚̰̾͝ ̴̰̖̲͈̽̓̇̑̓͜ṗ̴̰̞͘e̷̯͛͂l̵̦̼̺̦̀͒̽͠e̵̝̻͑ͅa̵̼̪̋ͅs̶̯͖͙̊̾̀?̵̧͆̀”

~~~~

“W̸̳̾͂̇́̈́ę̴͚̫̽́̀͝͠r̷̛̜͇͔͔̗ ̷̰̰͙͋́̄͝ḇ̸̭̯̔̈̆͜͝ï̶̲̙͇̆̐͠ṣ̴̣̩̋̎͗͝͝t̶̡̜͛ ̴̭͚͙̂d̵̛̘̘̫͇͒͋ů̴̝̐͛̅͝?̸̺̳̏̏̀̋ ̷̗̌͐͛F̵̻̀̋̋̉̕ü̶̠̑̀̈́r̵̻̈͆̍̕ ̸̯̥̪͍̓̎̓͝ͅẅ̵̪̹̅͐ę̶̢̺͎͒̍̅n̵̨̗̰͆ ̶̻̼̊̑̓̾̇k̷̨͇̫̬̍̑ä̶͖̫̗͕̱̍̃̃͑ḿ̸̙̫̠̘̊p̵̪̗̓̕f̷̢̡̮̫̘͆̓͠s̷̢͕̾̃̆̒t̵̢̻̘̜͈̃͛͑ ̵̡̞̞̱̿d̷̛͈͛̄̈́̚u̵̯̇́͜͝?̸̪̅̃͛̓̂ͅ”

~~~~

Static filters through the sounds, but at least they’re distinguishable words for once. Crackles and pops tickle your eardrums as the stream of languages pours out of nowhere and everywhere at once. It’s strange to hear a voice that doesn’t belong to Sans or the television, the tone deep and gravelly.

Then, it slows. A hesitant stretch of distorted but familiar language scratches the folds of your brain.

“Ẉ̵͇̞̻̎̊͝͝h̴͇͈͉̻̭̏͊͛̓͝ö̸̤͔͎͓̹́̀͑̏̚ ̸̟̪̀͌͆͗̈́a̴̢̽͋̃͝r̶̡̧̼̟̦̒̓̊̉̕e̴̙͚͍͋ͅ ̷̅ͅy̷̯̮̋̑̐̐̌ợ̶̖͌͐͐ù̶̡?̸͖̼͌̽̉̕”

~~~~

You try to laugh at the outrageousness of your situation, but the sound comes out dry and humorless. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“W̷̘̤͉̜̤͆h̸̦̒ͅõ̷̻̤̲̇̆͠ ̶̣͈͔͜͠͠I̸̗̍̇̑̑ ̵̮͛̅̔̚͝ȁ̷̢͚͍̼̈́̔̕ͅm̶̢̛̪̗̾̈́ ̴͚̰̘̔̐͌ḯ̸̢̞̦͖̺̊̎̿s̷͙̮̖̪̫̋̌̾̑ ̶͖̖̎͜ű̶̡̟̰̟̇n̴̦̲͔̪͊i̶͍͓͝m̶͈̒̔͒̐p̷̡̮͔̗̥̌̅͑͝o̷͉͉͋̇r̸̡͊̒̿͑͘t̸̹̖͍̠͗̈́̕a̵̢̖͚̹͇̚n̷̺̎͆͋t̶͈͆̓͛̕.̸̞͐͝” The familiar symbols fade away and are replaced with new strings that seem to associate with these sentences. ~~~~“Ẅ̷͔̻͈̿̇̽ĥ̴̘̓̌̈́͋ä̴́͜t̶͙̓̃̕ ̶̧̉͛̔m̴̦̍́ä̷̛͈́t̶̢̞̊̃͊͘ṱ̷̦̤̩̓̉̋͝e̸̳̺͎̭͌̈́̉͗̆r̶̭͂̍͒͝s̴̳̿̿̂ ̷̯̈́i̶̞̳̻̦̊̃̒̔̚s̴̢̧͕̞̈͜,̶̭͐̓͂͝ ̸̟̟͋̿̐ẃ̵̫͚͚͛̈́͝h̵͓͓͇͕͕̽̑ȯ̵͓̰̦̘ ̶͈̱̟̙̣̃a̷̳͕̳̯͉̒̇̋͝ř̶̛̹̝̥̻͍̓͘e̵͚͌̀̒̈́̅ ̵̤̉̂̌Ŷ̶̞̯͆̾̓͘O̷̠̐͗͛̒Ų̶̫͇͉̽̉̓?̴̨̮͐̄̾”

The final row of pictures, a Star of David, a square, and a filled in diamond, continue to glow even after the sentence has ended. From the way the white light blankets you, it almost feels like an accusation.

Defense builds in your chest. “What does it matter?” Your name is just another thing of your past lost to your situation. A useless string of letters nobody uses to refer to you anymore.

You belong to Sans. You are whatever or whoever he deems you to be. He holds your entire existence now.

The strange voice seems to understand it’s not going to get a proper answer from you. So it switches to the next question.

“Ẁ̶̱̼̑h̸̰̲̱̊̌̂͘͘o̴̧̹̥̊̾̎ ̸͎̟̐̈́̐͘d̸̜̊̓͝o̴̢͉̩̊̈́͌̅̕ ̴̜̎͗y̸͉̬͌͝o̴̼̤̞̯̜͐ǔ̶̗̑̌̿ ̴̡̜̻͘f̷͈̤͈͒į̴̛̖̯̼̉͝g̸̡͎͚͇͐̃͒̕ͅh̴̳͓̱̺͐ẗ̶̙̃̎̋̒ ̶̩̻̖̄f̴̡̖̪̖͑o̷̙̝̪̖̚ř̷̩̖͒̒̒̓?̴̢̨̛̼͙͌̾̇”

Fight? That was a joke. What was the point? You’re stuck in this predicament. Trapped at rock bottom, with absolutely nothing that can be done about it.

Your arms are too weak to strike an effective blow or hold off any directed at you.

Your legs are no longer strong enough to run, and you have no direction to run to.

Your voice is not loud enough to be heard, and too feminine to be taken seriously. 

So, who do you fight for? The answer is simple.

“Nobody.”

“Ṉ̵̔̎o̵͓͓͙̬̅ ̸̪̜̠̒͑o̴͈̟̽ǹ̴͙e̶̢͎͘ ̵̝̮͔̲̊̒a̶̭̐́͜t̴̮̬͊̎ ̸̬̘͖̯̅͜à̴͚͂ļ̶̙̇̚͠l̷̹̭̩͉̀̎͌͒?̷̹̱͊̾̒̀̇”

“No…”

A pause that feels like contemplation from this mysterious speaker fills the space. 

“W̵̛̝͕͑͗ḫ̷̆͐̆̕͜ͅā̵͈̝̺̣̅ͅt̸͉̝͑̅̉͂ ̷̙̣͙̯̗̇̌̈́̈́a̸̭͖̚b̶̡̮̰̙̈́̚o̵͎̭̖͘̚u̴̡̢͎̥̥͋͂̚t̵̨̙̘͒̇͊̒͘ ̸̛̤̙̍̓̍̎ẖ̶̖̽̄̃͊ë̴̞́̾̾͆́ͅr̵̨̛̹̲̓̇̎?̷̥̐̽̍̐”

Something embeds itself in your closed fist. Before the pressure can pierce the skin, you open your palm.

Inside is a thin cylinder of silver metal. Just strong enough to hold up the sole of a shoe.

As you stare at it, bile rises in your throat. You force the taste of acid back down into your gut.

“That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done what I did to her.”

“Y̴̖͋̂̈́o̶̞̱̞̻̥̿̎͆́̐u̴̡̖͔̹̒́͂̉ ̴̥͚̦̍̄̌͐͠p̵̡̲̫͛͐̚͝ų̶̙͎̮̐̂͒ṯ̷̼̊͂ ̶̜̀̓̽͘t̷̢̤̖̻̆ͅǫ̵͐̈́͠ơ̷̙̭̫ ̸̱̙̤͇͊͊̽m̴̟͉̤̊̕u̶̡͚̲̺̜͐c̴͔̃̎h̶̩̬͍̤̏̚̕͠ ̵͔͚̖̼̃̂̎o̷̪͈͂͜ͅn̵̮̞̄̐͜͝͝ ̶̛͍͓̄́́͂y̸̘͕͒̀͜ȏ̵̩͠u̸͕̙̣̮͉͂͑r̷̢̹̩̻͌s̶̨̞͔̬̀͜e̶̤̥͍̯̎͑̈́͠l̷̛̰̈͐̇͘f̶̩̥̰̃̃̎̓̇.̸̱̫͊̆͝”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Y̸̛̙̪̖͊̓o̴͈͖͊͛̔̚͘ͅu̴̠̟̽̈͝ ̷̜͌̎̾̑͝ẅ̵̰͈́́̾͝ȅ̸̪̺̼̩̜̀͋̊ȓ̴͎̺ē̴̻̮͓̯ ̸̳̍̏̌͗t̸̺͇͗̃r̴̪̽̇̿́ý̵̰́î̵̮͕̔n̶̪͇͑̔͆̍g̶̦̔͊̇̽͜ ̸̘̉͛́͠t̴̢͐͑͝o̶̺̥̙͊̒̈̚ ̷̢̛͇̾̾̄ḥ̷̹̖̿̎ͅḛ̴͇͍̎l̵͓̻͈̼̓̅̊͒̃ṕ̶̮̠̥̬͒ͅ ̸̻̫̓̃ḩ̴̡̥͓̑̽̕̚ȩ̶̝̩̙͗̎̚͘r̶̡͑.̷͕̞̖̈”

The blunt calmness in the delivery of the statement infuriates you.

“Yeah, and look what good it did!” You clench your fist around the metal and shake it at the hieroglyphs. “She’s dead! She’s dead and it’s all _my fault!_ ”

As your voice cracks, your fist flies open. The heel soars through a gap in one of the symbols and vanishes into the ether. Once it’s disappeared from sight, your anger crashes and burns. Your shoulders heave with silent sobs, but nothing seeps from your eyes.

How much trauma does it take to run out of tears? Apparently this much.

You wish you’d reached this point sooner. You’ve grown disenchanted by the concept of emotions.

Anger, fear, hopelessness, pain. None of them help. It’s better to go through everything like this. The numbness allows you to focus solely on the logic.

Everything that’s happened up to this point is utterly, entirely, unconditionally…

_YOUR FAULT._

There’s no point trying to deny it any longer. The fact slaps like a bitch, but at least it’s truthful.

_“You deserve this.”_

With all the commotion and chaos, those words from the day Sans first touched you got pushed to the back of your mind, barely an echo. Now, in the dead silence that’s fallen after your yell, they’re loud as thunderclaps.

_“You deserve this.”_

You realize that phrase has never stopped repeating.

_“You deserve this.”_

For the first time, you think that it’s right.

The masculine voice speaks again. The pace is much slower, careful.

“T̴̡̜̙̞̊͐̈̓ḩ̴̛̯̃̅͋e̵̡̩̝͔ͅ ̶̡̥͓͌͋̽̒͘ľ̷̰̀̋͝͠í̸̝̩͓̟̏̎̐ģ̶̦̲̈͝h̵̹̩̮͙͇̎̑͌t̸̳͌̈́̚ ̶̨̞͉̳̆͐̓͝ͅf̶̢̗̮̦̂̇͠r̸̬̰̺̦͆͛͂͠o̸̡͇͍̰̻̓̂͛͝m̶̟̳͝͝ ̷͎͖̯͚̜͑̍͛y̸͇̥̾̚o̴̡̯̘̙̐͝u̷̙̤̺̬͑̑͝r̵̪̅͗̇̊͜͝ ̷̘̺̯͕̩͋̈̕̕s̸͇̮̖͗͊͑͘͝o̷͚̩͌͒̑ư̸͖̻͙̻͑̓̀l̷̨͔̭̞͋̾͆͘ ̷̛͔̒̌n̷͚͇͊̄̆o̷̟̅ ̷̟͔͇̭͇l̷͎̟͋̑͛̎ͅo̴̥̩̝̘͊̀̃̏n̴͇͎͍̯̈g̷̹͐̈́̒̂͜͠ê̵̟̯̝̫͍r̷͙͍̜͖̬̔ ̷̬͗̇̑̌s̷̝̲̻̯̙͌h̸̫̎i̶̱̗̜̱̔͋͐̕n̵̺̽̏è̴̦͓́ͅs̸̢̫̲͇̊̊͗̃͐ ̶͇͓̾ḅ̷̡̛̖̎̋e̷͕̘̯̥͚̿̓͝h̶͖̱̳͆̃͘͝i̴̼͇͝͝n̶͓͒̓̇͑͑d̸̲̥͂͊ ̵͎͚̳̩̝͑̐̈͛͋y̸̢̡͉̣͎̑̍ō̷̜̐̽u̸̻̥̥̝̭̿ŕ̷̛̳̳͝ ̷͖̬͆͋̏ę̴̗̟̻̣͠ẏ̶̘̯̠͆̓e̵̞̼̞͒̍s̶͙̯͉̭͗̐̔̇.̶̨̹͚̬͍̆̂̄̄ ̶͇̬̄̾͐Y̵̝̟͊̍̃̌̄ŏ̸̳̥̙̺͆͋̾̓ǘ̵̢͇̗̖̌̇ ̶̢̰̗̩̔̋̋͜m̴̛̝̗͕͔͈̋̋͐̏ǔ̶̝̫͓̳͝s̶̡̈̈́̍͠t̸̨̯̊̑͌ ̸̘̭̠̔̑̿ͅn̶̨̠̠̲̓͒ǫ̸͈̈̓ṱ̵͓̲̀̃̓͆͠ͅ ̵̨̈́l̷̮̰̀ͅȇ̴̪t̴͚̙̿͗͋͘ ̷͉͙̖̬̈́̏̈̾ͅi̴͇͍̍͂͝t̷̡̮̣̝̫͆ ̸͎̹̤̼͜g̵̲̬̩̗̐̅͒õ̷̠̤̯͓ ̵̯͍̈̌̍̏ͅȏ̸͈͉̝͎̻̉u̷̲̼͍͑̃̊͐t̶̪͐͘.̴̢̹̬̭̔̎̅̕͠ ̷̞͊͂̀̆̿H̵̗͙̭͔̄̑͑e̷̹͉̻͍͊́̉̑ ̴̛̮̻͙̃͗͝w̸̨͓͒i̷̟̎͐̊l̶̘̪̫͉̖͗͆̒̄̚l̷͍͎̟̥̇͛̾̃̎͜ ̶͚̥̄́ẅ̷̧̤̘́̒̅̎i̸̫͂͂͆n̷̼̩̕ͅ ̷͎̙̬͙̗̈́̾ỉ̸̪͕̝͉̆̽f̶͖̹̲̩͂͐͊ ̷͔̪͗̔ÿ̴͖̗̖̘̿͐o̷̠͖͗̅̽̌û̶͈̦̟̹̯̍̄ ̵̡̙̺̙͑̋d̸̨̖̰̟͛̀̂̕͜o̵̲͉̩͎͒̓̌̆͜.̵̡̣̭̼̺̄̓̈́̓”

As if it recognizes that it is being spoken of, your soul clenches. Your whole body spasms, and you fall to your knees. Enveloping your arms around your chest, you try to hold yourself together. But it’s so hard…it feels like your body is being pulled in a hundred different directions.

“What’s happening?”

As something spectral prods at your soul, new images flash in your brain. At the same time, a more familiar voice whispers, entrancing your senses.

_"be still…all is well…”_

A decrepit looking hot dog stand with cracks in the counter and tiles missing from the roof overtakes your vision.

_“come on….no more playing hard to get…”_

Sans’ voice tries to ease you into a state of relaxation. Knowing he holds all control, it almost works, but the sight of a bloody axe resting between your hands makes you jump. You release the blade as quickly as possible, but before it can hit the ground, you’re staring at a pool of blood staining the snow underneath a severed head. It’s covered in blue scales, with hair red as flame.

As you watch a black eyepatch get caught up in a wind and blown into the darkness beyond, another moan catches in your throat. Sans’ voice tries once again to distract you, drawing you in with its gentle coaxing.

_“easy does it…”_

A golden corridor filled with pillars surrounds you. Each one is illuminated by light that pours through multiple stained-glass windows. This place seems like it represents something important…something you once believed in…

Your soul gives a pulse of agreement, but in doing so, you feel the clamp of whatever’s been poking it. Slime seems to be seeping past the outer layer…Is something trying to burrow inside?!

And then, just like that, it stops. Over like nothing even happened. No visions. No hypnosis. Your soul beats with its regular rhythm, untouched by foreign substances. 

The mysterious voice tries to speak.

“D̷̗̭͚̀͌õ̸̢̝͎̮̖͗͑̈́ ̸͇̻͔̺̹̅n̸͇͙̝͚̣̾̍̽ọ̴̧̝͕̿t̶͖̼̽̑́ ̷̤̻͍̬̎̍̇̚͜f̸̰͔̌͐͑̚͝ͅȯ̸̺͇͚̎͐̌͊r̶͇̮̈́̓g̶̰̥̬̠̫̊e̶̻̣͌͆̀̋̓ţ̴͎̠̅̂͛—̸̹̠̟̼̆̈́͌ͅ”

But before it can finish, you talk over it. You’re tired of not understanding what’s going on.

If you want to survive, from now on, there’s only one person you’re going to take instruction from. And it’s not this disembodied voice that seems to think it knows everything about you.

“I want to wake up now.”

There’s no falling this time. No screaming and arguing.

You simply open your eyes. 

The first thing you notice upon awakening is the abrupt shift from numbness to pain. It rockets through you at such a speed, it feels like another layer of skin.

The second is enormous sockets watching your every minute twitch. Sans’ name dances on the tip of your tongue. It takes more strength than you have to spit it out past the aches. A sharp gasp escapes instead.

He perks right up at the sound. “hey there, precious,” he coos. His hand stretches out, and your body tries to tense the closer it approaches.

You expect him to take hold of your shorn hair. To pull your head up. To cause more _pain_.

Sans doesn’t do that. Instead, he rests his palm against your sweaty forehead, checking your temperature.

“had to give you a couple shots of magic to calm you down. you got pretty upset after that girl died. i’m sorry you saw it.”

Did you hear that correctly, or is the pain so bad that you’re hearing things?

_He actually knows how to apologize?_

Once satisfied your temperature is at what he deems a normal level, he tilts a cup under your bottom lip. Ice water burns like a shot of hard alcohol down your parched throat.

“you didn’t seize once this time though. that’s a good thing. all this exposure must be helping you get used to it.”

Did that mean you were becoming more like him? Your body already seems to be more skeleton than skin with the way the bones jut out…

You’d attributed your gaunt physique to malnutrition. What if more devious actions are at play?

None of this matters right now. It’s useless compared to what you have to say this very second.

“Sans, please…I need more…”

He cocks his head. His sockets dart along every visible part of you. “are you hurting? where?”

 _Everything_ hurts. Your wounded body. Your emotions. The blunt knowledge that you understand everything is your fault now and you’re never getting out of here. You’re drowning in suffering.

You can’t vocalize that properly. All you can do is grovel.

“Please…”

He shushes your distressed begging, and turns to prepare a syringe. Once it’s filled and beginning to approach your skin, you prepare yourself for the pinch.

It never comes.

Sans holds the needle inches from your skin, forcing you to wait in agonized anticipation.

“maybe it’s better if you just ride it out. i don’t want you getting dependent on the stuff…you’re a tough girl, surely you can handle it…”

You can’t. You really can’t. You debate bargaining, but anything you offer, he can just take anyway.

You plead once more, praying he’ll realize how serious you are.

He places his phalange atop the stopper. And again, he hesitates.

“well…if it’s really that bad…”

If you had the energy, you’d jerk your arm upward so that needle was stabbed straight through your muscle and force the plunger full of juice down yourself…

“the magic can make your brain fuzzy, sweetheart. just a few questions to make sure you’re not experiencing memory loss…”

He asks for your name. You almost say, ‘sweetheart’ out of instinct. The answer you provide leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

Next he wants to know if you remember what holiday the two of you just celebrated. You fire the answer off as quickly as possible. The longer you hesitate, the more the pain intensifies. 

Finally, his free hand _tap tap taps_ in thought against his chin, drawing out the last question.

“when we signed the soul contract, what were the two things you agreed to be in our relationship?”

This answer takes a bit more effort to remember. Your brain strains as you meekly choke it out.

“Dedicated…and…devoted…”

Sans’ smile shifts from caring to one of smug satisfaction. 

“that’s my good girl,” he croons, and you start to wonder if the magic really does cause memory loss, or if he just wanted to hear you say those words out loud.

But before you can really dwell on it, the syringe is in your arm, and your veins are being shot up with something more potent than the strongest opiate.

It’s not enough to knock you out this time. Even so, relief at the oncoming oblivion to your senses overrides everything. Including any worry about what you will now owe him for this.

You’ll do anything he wants. You’re just so _grateful_ that he’s not so heartless that he’s unwilling to take away your pain…

“Thank you Sans…”

He swoops in to kiss you. You attempt to reciprocate, but your tongue feels too big for your mouth. He doesn’t seem to mind, allowing you to cave into him so he can maneuver it with his own evenly paced strokes.

He’s not trying to rapidly devour you like all the times before. Now, he’s taking his time. Your hollowed out body relishes it.

It almost feels gentle…

Your free hand hangs limply over the side of the bed. As the magic loosens your muscles, something slips through your fingers and lands on the floor with a metallic clatter.

You’d thought your hands were empty…

Sans breaks the kiss and bends to retrieve it.

“what’s this sweetheart?”

Through the growing haze that’s clouding over your vision, you can make out the shape.

It’s a long, thin, silver cylinder...

“Nothing.” The slurred mess comes out dead, emotionless. “Just a piece of garbage…”

Sans pockets it without protest, and then carefully climbs into bed alongside you. You shift your body in quiet subservience so it leans into his. With the easier access, his hand returns to stroking your hair. 

He doesn’t love you, he just _wants_. But that’s the closest you’ll ever get. So you’ll take it.

After all, that’s what you deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Victim-Shaming, Depressive Thoughts, and Psychological Abuse
> 
> I hope I've made it clear with my notes and tags, but here it is just in case: I absolutely do NOT condone the actions Sans takes in this story. This relationship is absolutely toxic and unhealthy, and should not be used as representation for any good relationship in real life. Anybody who has gone through any of what Y/N has gone through, or any other type of abuse, it is NOT THEIR FAULT!  
> No one asks for it. No one deserves it. No ifs, ands or buts about it. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone. <3


	17. New Year, New You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans puts his plan into action of trying to give Y/N some space to open herself up. But is he playing a bigger role in her resolutions and decision making than she knows?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put in the warnings/tags in the end notes at the bottom of this chapter. 
> 
> In this chapter, I make mention to a song that is Y/N's favorite; I'm not going to say what it is, but I've tried to leave hints in the chapter. If anybody can identify what it is in the comments, a hundred points to you!
> 
> A big thank you to all who read this chapter, and I hope that you enjoy! As always, comments, critique, and theories are welcome!

When you wake the next morning, it’s of your own volition, and that is unusual.

You notice it because normally, Sans is the one to wake you. Unless he has to leave to ‘work’ or pick up supplies, he always stays in bed waiting for you. His arms cage you against his bare bones, and he traces designs along your curves with his claws. When he gets bored of waiting, your sleep cycle never fails to break when he grazes one of two areas. 

The first is your underarms. He claims he finds it adorable watching your face twist and twitch in mild irritation.

The second is your mons pubis. You’ve only been at the cabin for a month, but that’s long enough to know that if he’s stroking that spot and curling his digits in the hair of that region, he has other reasons for wanting you awake.

This time though, he’s not even in the room. He must have been there at some point; the dent on the right side of the mattress reeks of ketchup. There are red splotches on the sheet that you pray are the condiment and not something more sinister.

It only gets stranger from there.

Aside from the fitted sheet underneath you, all blankets have been stripped from the bed. All furniture aside from the bed has been removed. The lights are all off. Black out curtains are drawn across the window, blocking out the sun.

You move to wipe the sleep from your eyes, hoping that’ll help brighten your vision. But your unharmed arm can only go so far before it jerks back towards the headboard. Metal clanks and rattles as it shifts at your side.

A drastic drop in temperature worsens the muscle aches overtaking every inch of you. Even if you didn’t have a chain trapping you in place, you wouldn’t have the strength to get up and move to warm up. Even tiny shifts in position are excruciating. But getting blood pumping is the least of your concerns.

The bedroom has been transformed into a cell. 

_What’s going on?_

You wrack your brain, trying to think of the events that transpired last night.

The only thing you remember very well is a broken heel from a stiletto…

As you’re trying to bring other blurry memories to clarity, you hear heavy footsteps in another part of the house. They’re combined with plenty of metallic clanging and banging. It sounds like a great mess is being made somewhere.

“Sans?”

You don’t expect your croak to be heard, but the great ruckus suddenly dies down. After a moment, the doorknob twists. The squeal of the door’s hinges raises goosebumps on the back of your neck.

Sans’ figure takes up the entire space inside the door frame. The only light source comes from the red in his eye-socket, which seems to swell when it lands on you.

He stalks towards you, and the closer he grows, the easier it is to see the stern set to his mouth. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t make jokes. He doesn’t say a word.

_How could you have you done something wrong already?_

His hands slide underneath your body and work to prop you into a sitting position. As soon as you start inclining, your stiff muscles lock up in retaliation.

“Sans, why am I chained? What’s going on?”

He shifts your legs into a bent position. Both of your knees crack in quick succession.

“i promised i wouldn’t lock the doors. this won’t work if you’re wandering around.”

_What won’t work?_

You ask him, but he doesn’t dignify you with a response. He won’t even look you in the eye. Instead, he grabs your casted arm, ensures it’s straight, and then starts lifting it up and down. He repeats that a few times, and then adjusts your limb so your elbow is bent at a ninety degree angle. 

“watch what i’m doing. you’ll need to do all this at least four or five times a day until the cast comes off to keep circulation flowing.”

After bending the arm, he moves on to flex your finger joints, and tap your thumb against each tip. You try to pay attention, but his strange behavior makes the movements lost on you.

Finally he pushes so your hand bends backward as far as it will go. He’s not exerting enough force to cause new breaks or damage, but the unnatural angle still results in your nerves sending cautionary signals at a rapid-fire pace. What happened to the gentle side of him he’d shown last night?

As you’re struggling to bite back whimpers, Sans asks a familiar question.

“when we signed the soul contract what were the two things you agreed to be in our relationship?”

This new curt tone transports you back to being a teenager, sitting in the principal’s office.

“Dedicated and devoted. Please, Sans, I’m in a lot of pain…”

He finally looks at you. The expression on his face reminds you of the ones teachers used to give you when rumors about you spread amongst the students and made their way to the faculty. They tried to be discreet with how they aimed their judgmental looks, but you always noticed them.

“are you saying that just to get what you want?”

“N…no, of course not!”

You don’t know why you’re bothering to defend yourself. At some point when you were younger, you stopped trying to convince everyone of your innocence. It never mattered. You always ended up punished anyway.

“you’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart. i don’t appreciate being lied to or used.”

You brace yourself for the same to happen now. Unpredictability has a way of intensifying the shock. It’s better to expect it. Whatever he decides to do, it’ll hurt less if you see it coming and ruin the surprise.

“who is your soulmate, _(y/n)_? the only one who will ever love you despite your many flaws? who forgives you for being such a greedy, selfish girl?”

Blood pounds in your ears at a frantic pace as you try to piece together what’s happening. “What?”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to try giving a proper answer before firing off another question. You feel like you're in the middle of an interrogation. 

“do you love your soulmate?”

You chew your bottom lip and tilt your gaze away from his direction, though not so far that a side eye glance is impossible. An incoming attack has not yet been ruled out.

“I…I…”

Sans sighs and works at removing your watch. The sternness slips away when he shakes his head in disappointment. 

“that’s what i thought. you know, i had a long time to think while you were asleep, and i came to a conclusion. you need some time alone.”

_Time alone? Is he abandoning you? For how long?_

“the space will do you good. trust me, i’ll never be far away; every day i’ll come check on your arm and bring some more food.”

As if to prove it, he places a bottle of vitamin water and a crust of bread in your lap. Atop the slice, he rests a single brown pellet. You pick it up and inspect it quizzically.

“this is what you get for today. that truffle has enough magic in it to take away your aches for a limited time. the rest is regular food. don’t scarf it down all at once. can’t have you wasting away and losing your figure.”

After pinching your side, he winks. “maybe there’ll even be more treats if i see you’re making progress.”

_Progress with what?_

But before you even open your mouth, he’s backing away and sliding the door shut.

“this is what’s best. soon you’ll see it too. you’re just shy. need to learn to open up.”

As soon as he’s gone, you’re stuffing the round chocolate into your mouth whole. The sweetness makes your teeth ache, but only temporarily.

This magic feels different from the other times. It doesn’t provide a numbing feeling; this is quite the opposite experience. In no time at all, your body is buzzing. Warm tingles dance along every inch of you. Sparkles gleam in the corners of your eyes. Your head is fuzzy, but not enough that you can’t think clearly. In fact, your mind feels like it’s being opened to all the knowledge the universe contains.

Confusion melts into relief. Hope blooms inside your chest. Sure, at first glance, keeping you locked in a room tied to a bed with a manacle doesn’t seem like progress.

But maybe not looming over you touching you all day is a sign that he’s trying to better himself.

This feeling embodies the meaning of the word magical. 

It doesn’t last long enough.

Boredom settles in like a cloud. When you were first brought here, you’d never considered scratching tallies along the headboard of the bed, so positive that you would be gone in less than a week.

Now you wish you had. It would give you something else to count.

Aside from memorizing every minor detail you can make out in the dark, your options are limited. You perform the arm actions Sans showed you until your arms feel like noodles. The only other thing to do is eat. 

While you try to savor the food Sans provided, eventually you reach the final nibble. Crumbs slip into the crevice between your legs and chafe the skin. Opening the drink’s lid with both hands incapacitated makes for a near impossible task.

Just as it’s starting to loosen, the bottle slips from your grasp and tumbles off the side of the bed. When you try to lean over to see where it’s gone, the mattress is too high off the ground.

_Maybe if you call for help, he’ll come in with more…More of everything…_

“Sans?”

You know he’s still in the cabin; you can hear the television from the other room. Despite the high volume, he can probably hear you. You try to raise your voice anyway.

“I need your help…”

Over the recorded voices, the heavy clump of his footsteps makes its way up the hall. They grow louder the closer they get. Once the sound stops, you wait expectantly for the door to open.

It doesn’t.

“I dropped the vitamin water, and I’m really thirsty…I didn’t mean to; it was an accident. I swear.”

He’s so close. But still, nothing happens.

“Please, Sans, I need you.”

That seems like something that would make him happy. But the door doesn’t open.

Instead, your dread grows as the footsteps pick up again; because this time, they grow quieter and quieter as they get further away.

The volume on the television is raised. The laugh tracks feel like they’re directed at you.

You beg and call and plead, even after your dry throat starts cracking, making you sound like you’ve hit puberty for a second time.

He still doesn’t come.

****

Without your watch or access to natural light, you have no concept of how long you’ve been lying on the mattress. The world feels like it’s been put on pause.

The pain gradually fades the more it becomes part of you. Even still, you don’t allow yourself the healing power of sleep, not wanting to be disturbed by more strange dreams. There’s another reason too, but you’re too ashamed to admit it.

To keep boredom at bay, you toss and turn, trying to get a corner of the sheet untucked. It would be nice to have something wrapped around yourself to provide a bit of warmth. Despite your desperate attempts, it remains firmly stuck in place.

So focused on squirming, you almost miss the one thing you’ve been waiting for.

The slight change in lighting brought by his presence burns your eyes. He’s still not his usual talkative self. He doesn’t even chastise you for your clumsiness when he reaches under the bed to retrieve the fallen bottle.

_You miss his jokes…_

The only things he says after checking your wrist and dropping off your daily rations are the same three questions as yesterday.

“when we signed the soul contract what were the two things you agreed to be in our relationship?”

“who is your soulmate, _(y/n)_?”

“do you love your soulmate?”

You phrase your answers in the form of questions.

“What do you want me to say? Whatever you want me to say, I’ll say it. Just tell me what you want to hear.”

Afterward, he keeps a blank expression on his face and doesn’t linger.

“if you don’t know, then you’re not ready.”

The slam of the door carries more fury than he let on in his body language.

At least he didn’t take it out on you this time…

 _There_ must _be some good in him if he was able to find it in himself not to punish you this time._

There’s still noise coming from the living room area, but this time it’s music. The walls muffle the lyrics, but the melody drifts under the door. It’s familiar, and set on repeat.

It takes a few listens, but after the fifth time the ballad reaches the final verse, you’ve identified it. It’s your favorite song of all time, and not just because it was the first contemporary song you’d learned to play on the piano as a child.

While most people you knew liked one of this band’s other songs more (Something about a train and not losing faith), the message of this tune always resonated with you. The idea that broken relationships could be mended was one that didn’t seem possible for you; but listening to the lead singer’s clear hope for a second chance always kept just a sliver of that alive in you. You’d even set it as your phone’s ringtone for your parent’s number, in case they ever decided to contact you.

Now, the repeating keyboard, clash of cymbals, and crooning guitars takes the focus away from the pangs in your slowly shrinking stomach.

As the song plays and your drugged brain automatically fills in the lyrics, you wonder if Sans is trying to send you a subliminal message from the other room.

Is he asking for a second chance?

Or is he giving you one to prove yourself to him?

The music plays long through the night, bleeding into your third day of being chained.

****

The walls are starting to breathe around you.

You bite your accessible fingernails until they’re nothing but bloody nubs, and then continue to chew on your fingers. Not hard enough to sever, just enough to get the taste of something in you.

You need food.

Even more than that, you need more magic.

You won’t survive without it.

This time when Sans comes in, he’s carrying a bowl with him.

The reminder of what happened the last time you’d eaten something solid you couldn’t see roils your gut. But you’re not going to refuse food. Mercifully, when he tilts the dish to your mouth, only liquid pours in. You practically inhale it, not caring how the broth scalds your throat and tongue.

It’s hot, and not just in the temperature sense. Past the typical chicken and boiled vegetable taste, there’s a spiciness. When Sans wipes the excess from your lips, his napkin comes back an orangey-red hue.

Chili powder.

Your parents hadn’t done a lot of cooking when you lived at home; your family had been well enough off that you’d had people to do it for you. But when you were little, whenever you got sick, your mother used to add the mix of spices to your soups. She’d insisted the added pungency would burn the infection away.

You’d never been able to prove her wrong, and it had been the one recipe you’d taken from home when you’d headed to school. Even when you didn’t have a cold, you found yourself sprinkling a pinch into your boiling pots every time you made soup.

You only get about halfway through the bowl when Sans pulls it away. 

He holds it at a distance, but not far enough away for the hot steam to avoid wafting your direction. It slides temptingly up your nostrils. Your famished stomach gurgles with desperate cravings for more, more, _more_.

Sans watches you with a wary eye. At every minor tick, he pulls it closer against his side, as though he expects you to lunge forward to try to steal it from him.

The idea is not entirely uninviting.

“when we signed the soul contract what were the two things you agreed to be in our relationship?”

This first answer is practically engrained on your tongue. “Dedicated and devoted.”

You pray he isn’t expecting more to be tacked on the end this time. But he doesn’t give any reaction, just moves on to the next one.

“who is your soulmate, _(y/n)_?”

“Y…you are…”

This time, he arches a brow bone. “have you forgotten my name?”

Shit. You bow your head, not wanting to see that disappointed look on his face. Sans doesn’t probe further. He merely moves on one final time.

“do you love your soulmate?”

You don’t even answer, knowing that you’ve already failed. You turn your head and close your eyes, not wanting to see that door shut when it happens.

When you dare to look again, your eyes land on the bowl, resting beside you on the bed. There’s another chocolate as well. 

Every inch of you is screaming ‘ _why?’_ when you shove the items off the side of the bed, out of reach. The answer is quite simple.

Sans wouldn’t let you starve, or go for too long in pain. You hadn’t given him what he wanted, and yet he was still willing to offer you something familiar, something comforting.

You have to prove you’re not just using him.

He cares about you.

But he still doesn’t unshackle you.

****

Exhaustion finally catches up with you. You sleep through the entire fourth day. It’s not refreshing. Everything is scented with chili powder. An instrumental version of the song plays out of tune. Overlaying that, the questions repeat in your head.

No matter what you come up with, none of the answers seem right.

You have to be better for him.

****

A familiar tickling sensation under your armpit draws you out of your dreamless slumber. When you move to swat it away, your arm swings freely.

Moonlight pours through the unshielded window. With it filling the room, there’s no mistaking the lack of shackle attached to your right side. Your voice is groggy when it comes out.

“Where’s the chain?”

Sans continues lazily trailing his finger along your skin from beside you. “what do you mean, honey?”

You shake your freed hand. There’s not even a red indent encircling your wrist. “The one that was around my wrist. Where did it go?”

His skull wrinkles up as he starts inspecting your plastered arm.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. you told me you needed a couple of days to yourself, to think about what’s important. there was no chain. i’d never tie you up. not unless you wanted to try something kinky…”

_Maybe you’d fantasized it…_

Your wrist feels the most normal it’s ever felt. Despite telling him this, Sans pops another magic-filled chocolate into your mouth. This one has a gooey center that tastes like black cherry.

As you’re chewing, he starts pulling at the lacy bowstring holding the halter top of your chemise together. You try to block his hands, but your movements are turning strenuous. Your limbs suddenly feel like they’re being weighed down by a million tons worth of invisible chains.

“still so shy,” Sans easily pries your hands away from your torso and gently chastises you. “i just want to make sure you’re not having any bad reactions to the magic, sweetheart. i’ve never used this much on a human before; don’t want a rash messing up your pretty skin.”

_He’s just trying to ensure your health and safety…_

You give in, allowing him to graze his hands across your collarbone, around your breasts, down your sides. It’s bittersweet this time, knowing he’s not touching you just because he wants to. Part of you wishes that was the reason.

Something coils in your lower region, tempting and teasing you. But before anything can come of it, Sans freezes.

You follow the red of his gaze to where his hand rests on your hip.

Just under his hand is your skull tattoo. Or rather, what’s left of it.

The ink is so faded, it looks like nothing more than a smudged pencil drawing. It could almost pass for a mole.

You check the other spots you had tattooed and find the same thing. Every single bit of ink is disappearing from your body.

“I thought…you said…they wouldn’t go away…”

“what are you talking about? i never said that.” Sans shoves another truffle against your lips, and you obediently open up to eat it.

As you chew, you try to think back, past his dismissive response. Surely you had heard him say that at some point? It seems so familiar.

_Oh well. It doesn’t matter._

Love is conditional. You have to give things up in order to get it and all the good that comes with it. Besides, they aren’t a proper reflection of who you are anymore.

When Sans removes his hands from your body, it follows like it’s being pulled by a magnet, trying to prolong the touch for as long as possible. When you first undertook this journey, the concept of him not touching you had seemed ideal. But humans are physical creatures. Contact is crucial for survival. A hug from yourself when you can barely wrap your arms properly around yourself is nothing compared to the open arms of another being, no matter who they are.

“when we signed the soul contract what were the two things you agreed to be in our relationship?”

Even trying to speak slowly, the vowels and consonants tangle and drag in your mouth.

“Dedi…dedicaaaated…aaaaandddd….d…dev…devooooted.”

Sans coughs, and it almost sounds like he’s trying to hold back laughter. He covers his mouth with his sleeve for a moment to pull himself together before asking the next question.

“and who is your soulmate, _(y/n)_?”

You stretch out a hand and wiggle your pointer finger in his direction. “Yoooouuu. Sans….” You pause and think for an exaggerated moment. “I dunno your last name. But it’s you! Sans the skeleton…”

This time Sans doesn’t bother holding back his smile. Warmth floods you knowing you’ve pleased him.

“do you love your soulmate?”

“…yes?”

You hear the question in your answer even before you finish speaking.

Sans’ face falls.

Immediately you’re fully awake and sober. Surging up and towards him, you lunge to try to grab his jacket. “No, no, no, let me try again.”

He jerks away, exits the bed, and makes to turn around.

“Yes! Yes, I do!”

He’s at the door, hand on the doorknob. Your legs are too heavy to allow you to run after him.

“I swear I do!”

It’s turning…

“Sans, I love you!”

Before you can even process what you’ve done, he’s on top of you. He’s so close that his breath intermingles with your own. The red in his socket is so bright that everything you see swims in the violent shade. He’s kissing you like a starved man, ravishing every inch of bare skin under his teeth. Capillaries are bursting and leaving little purplish-red stains all over your skin.

“i should have done this _ages_ ago,” he pants in between rushed marks. Surging upward, he cages your head between his hands and laves his tongue along your jawbone. “say it again. it’s been _torture_ waiting so long. i _need_ to hear those words leave your lips again.”

You could just say, _“I love you,”_ again. But something else comes to mind. Something that will hopefully get the message across in a way that lets him know you mean it.

“You don’t have to wait anymore.”

He stills, cocking his head in confusion at your whisper. “what do you mean, sweetheart?”

Gathering your strength, you wrap your arms and legs around him, and pull him closer, clinging like you're trying to keep from drowning. Every inch of your fronts are touching. Despite the height differences, everything lines up just right. 

It’s all so clear. This is who you were meant to fit with. Who you were meant to give everything to. Including your most intimate possession.

“The last condition I made in the contract. You don’t have to keep it anymore.”

You gently undulate your hips. They hit something hard in his groin region. Sans’ breath hitches as mental gears clicks into place, and your implications grow clear.

“do…do you mean that?”

You nod, knowing the right response before it’s even fully formed in your mind. 

“Yes. With all my being.”

A laugh catches in his throat. It hangs heavy in the air, like smoke, and all you want is _more_. He smiles and leans his forehead against your own. You breathe him in like the most addicting kind of drug. He’s so familiar now; being without him even for just these few days has felt so _empty_. Now, it feels like he’s merging your bodies together, combining them into one form.

“you’re a wonder, sweetheart.”

You melt like butter under the praise. As he reaches into his pocket, you close your eyes and arch your back. Allowing him further access. Fully prepared for the deed to commence.

A rush of white hot pain sears into the skin above your left breast.

The smell of burning flesh and metal scars your nostrils. Your mouth falls open, but the ability to scream is stolen from you. All that comes out is a series of gutted gasps.

What little liquid is stored in your bladder vacates itself as the edges of your vision wither into grey and black. As the monochrome closes in, everything blurs around you. Your head lols down as the heavy weight lifts from the area of your chest.

From this angle, the molten letters are upside down and backwards. But even with the shrinking tunnel of vision, you can make out what they say.

_sans_

Sans tosses something behind him, and it clatters heavily in the room. With one hand, he lightly slaps your cheeks, trying to keep shock at bay. With his free hand, he pulls his cellphone from his pocket. Before he hits a button, you make note of the date flashing on the screen.

January 1st. 12:01am. 

Sans hits a button, and holds the device up to his ear. For a while, the ringing is the only sound between you. The last thing you hear as your eyes roll back in your head is him speaking.

“Tori? it’s me."

“i think she’s ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know New Years has already past, but I thought it held some good imagery having this happen during that time. 
> 
> Warnings/Tags: Psychological abuse, gaslighting, drugging (Aphrodisiacs), imprisonment and psychological torture tactics, branding


	18. Hidden Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are still some preparations before Y/N and Sans can complete their bond. As Toriel helps Y/N get ready, she's confronted with some realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my time zone, there's ten to twenty minutes left of Valentines Day, so Happy Valentines Day everyone!  
> I had initially planned on having this chapter be the one with the ceremony, but the stuff with Toriel went a bit longer than I'd planned. Next time for sure!
> 
> Last weeks' chapter got a great response, so thank you all so much for that! I really hope you enjoy what happens here, and what's to come. I can't wait to read your comments; they really and truly help to motivate me. 
> 
> I listened to a lot of different songs for this chapter, but two of the ones that really stick out when I think of what influenced it are Already Over by Red, and Dear Agony by Breaking Benjamin (They actually recently released another version of this song with the past singer of Flyleaf, Lacey Sturm, and it's my favorite version!) I highly recommend checking both songs out!
> 
> Not as many warnings/tags for this chapter, but I will leave them in the End Notes, just in case.

If there’s one thing shame is good for, it’s sobering you up.

“that’s gonna get infected if you keep touching it, sweetheart."

You can’t stop tracing the crusty, raised scabs over your heart. One of your fingernails catches on a section, and it lifts up. Clear watery discharge weeps out from underneath before the blood starts to spill. The desire to rip the entire section off is intense. But it’ll just make the scarring worse, so you refuse to give in to your instincts. The aftermath of your stupid decision needs to be as unnoticeable as possible.

What had you been _thinking_ last night?

_He drugged you…_

No. No, he gave you magic. Magic you’d requested. He was just doing what you’d asked. Just like all things, Sans’ affection came with a cost. You’d been willing to pay any price to get it. Including trying to change the contract terms.

So in a way, you’d asked for this _ugly_ thing.

Punishment or reward, it was a good reflection of yourself. A disgusting, partially opened sore that should peel off the earth and never be seen again.

At least he hadn’t taken you up on your offer…you still have your virginity.

For how long is yet to be determined. 

“bonding ceremony jitters steal your appetite, sweetheart?”

Immediately you resume shoveling dry scrambled eggs into your mouth. What your fork doesn’t catch, you pick up with your now free left hand. Sans removed the cast this morning, insisting he didn’t want the ugly thing in any pictures that get taken today. Thankfully, your wrist is mostly mended. It’s a little stiff, but at least the fracture didn’t heal in misalignment.

_Be grateful for the little things…_

Pieces of brunch spill onto the floor. The cat darts over and starts gobbling it up. There’ll be no need for you to sweep later.

“today’ll be a learning experience for you, sweetheart. you get to take part in a crucial part of monster culture. but i did a little research in how humans celebrate unity. figured a little familiarity would make experience not as overwhelming.”

Never let it be said that he isn’t generous.

_Not out loud that is…_

“i gotta say, you humans have real strange traditions for when something good happens.” Sans pulls a fat cigar out of a box on the counter. He holds it in front of his face under intense scrutiny. His other hand wields a double bladed cutter. “i don’t have any lungs to ruin. you do, but i guess one time won’t kill ya.”

He talks about hating humans for what he deems disgusting habits and practices, but then pulls this shit?

_What a hypocrite…_

But that’s not the true reason the combination of items makes you sick.

They remind you of your father. The man you’d once envisioned walking you down the aisle on your wedding day.

Desperate to forget, you turn your attention back to the cat. She’s now batting a piece of dust between her paws. Sans points at her using the cigar. “you think of a name for her yet?”

You wait until your last bite is fully swallowed before responding. “I’m not sure.” She’s so full of energy, so playful. The friskiest little kitten you’ve ever seen.

“Maybe…Frisk?”

Before you can blink, your left middle finger is inside the perfectly circular hole of the cigar cutter. It rests just above the knuckle, guillotine blades keen to sever. Sans’ voice is deadly quiet, but cuts deep into your core.

“i don’t want to hear that name again. you understand me, sweetheart?”

A thin red line, not unlike a papercut encircles the digit as the metal kisses your skin.

Appeasements and apologies have become such a part of your vocabulary that you don’t even need to think of them anymore. They spill out, and fear chokes every assurance. Sans must hear it.

“i’m serious, _(y/n)._ that word’s gotta be _cut_ outta your vocabulary, or the runt’s out in the woods as wolf chow. because your ideas are so uncreative and stupid, i’ll choose. her name is Bones.”

You’d call her Your Imperial Highness if it meant you got to keep all ten of your fingers.

“I’m sorry, Sans.” You look up at him with that hooded expression you’ve perfected that always drives him crazy. “I love you.”

His frown flips upside down. The movement is tight, but when you repeat the phrase, you can tell it’s getting through to him. Thankfully, he frees your finger, but he doesn’t put the cutter away. Instead, he clips the end of the cigar in one fell movement.

For all you know, it could be that easy for him to slice off the end of Bones’ tail, or one of her ears next. So you scoop her up and hug her to your chest, using your arms as a human shield. You’re still trembling when Sans passive-aggressively ruffles your hair. It’s like you’re the pet in this house.

“you’re too tense.” Pocketing the cutter, he snaps his fingers. A cyan blue flame flickers to life, and he directs it to the clipped end of the cigar. “it’s a special occasion. maybe this’ll loosen you up. brighten your spirits…”

The end catches, and red alkaline smoke takes over the room. For someone who swears he’s never tried smoking before, Sans seems eerily comfortable drawing a thick pull into his mouth. He expertly swirls it around, and when he goes to exhale, his teeth pucker. It’s a struggle not to cough. Your nostrils burn from the stench of the heart-shaped rings encircling your head.

As Sans starts to take another hearty puff, there’s a knock on the door. He groans in exasperation and slams the lit cigar end on top of the table to extinguish it. There’s a smoldering hole left in the wood when he stuffs it back into its humidified case. “guess we’ll have to celebrate _after_ the ceremony.”

As he turns to answer the door, you grab his coat. When he turns back, you surge to your feet and press your mouth against his. The thick taste of tobacco seeps into your blood stream and dizzies your head. But, you push past it and continue working your tongue against his, desperate to placate him.

His hands grip your hair like it’s the only thing holding him together. Though you instigated the kiss, you allow him to control the moment. As he repeatedly smashes his face against yours, you feel his temper slipping away. While he’s distracted, you release the cat, giving her a chance to dart off and hide in another room.

You let him be the one to pull away first. Husky laugher rumbles through his ribcage. “easy girl. save a little for the honeymoon.”

_Missions accomplished…_

When he finally answers the door, the introductions pass in a blur. You barely catch this new monster’s name, too focused on the fact that she’s a goat monster. How fitting. What other demonic symbols will this hell greet you with next? You’re waiting for the day when you run into a snake monster, or a monster made of fire. 

When Sans asks where she wants the two of you to stand for the ceremony, she starts shaking her head.

“I know you’re eager Sans, but we simply cannot begin yet.”

Sans opens his mouth to protest, but the female goat won’t hear it. She starts pushing Sans out the door.

“Don’t you want her to dazzle like her glowing soul? Go on now. We shan’t take longer than an hour. Sixty minutes away from your mate will not be the death of you. Hopefully that will be enough time for you to switch out of that sloppy mess you call an outfit and into something more appropriate.”

If Sans had hair to bristle, it would be razor straight. You’re fully prepared for his rage for this other monster’s audacity to be taken out on you. But after a moment, his fists unclench.

“make sure she puts on extra socks, Toriel. don’t want her getting _cold feet_.”

The goat monster titters in response to the joke. Sans offers you another twitching grin.

“behave for Toriel, sweetheart. i’ll know if you don’t.”

He teleports away, so confident you’ll obey before you even get the chance to tell him you will.

As soon as he’s gone, the goat steps closer. First, she looks you up and down like she’s analyzing some impossible to solve puzzle. Then she grabs you by the chin, putting your face under that same scrutiny as she tilts your head every direction it can go without breaking.

“Sans hasn’t given me a lot to work with, has he?”

She says it with such a straight face you can’t tell whether she’s joking or serious. While trying to gauge, she drops her hand and her nose wrinkles in distaste. “Goodness, what a stench! This cabin needs a good airing out before we do anything!” As she turns and heads towards the living room, you slump back into your chair and resume scratching under your collarbone.

“The windows don’t open. He sealed them”

At your deadpan tone, her furry paw stills. There’s a pregnant pause as it hovers mere inches from the edge of the window frame. It takes her a moment to get it moving again, and she lowers it back to her side.

“Sans wasn’t kidding when he said he was worried you’d be the runaway bride type, was he?” Toriel giggles as though what you said was the quaintest thing she’s ever heard and not an unsettling truth. “Not to worry, dear one. I’m here to ensure this is a day you’ll never forget.”

Getting right to business, she reaches into one of two heavy fabric tote bags. In your fear, you’d totally missed her placing them on the counter in the first place. She lines up hair styling tools like an interrogator might organize their torture equipment. As makeup pallets and a hand mirror are laid out, you remain perfectly rigid.

First, Toriel sprinkles a shimmering powder on top of you. The tin is unlabeled, but it seeps into your pores and tickles your nose as it falls around you.

“Everyone gets jitters on their soul bonding day, my child,” she continues speaking as she works, brushing powders and creams across different areas of your face. “Even I did.”

“Were you getting married to a maniac?”

Her movements slow. “What do you mean by that, little one?”

Last time there was someone else in the house, you’d battled with the idea of asking for help. Papyrus had turned out to be just as crazy as his brother. In the end, it had ended up being better to just stay silent. You knew that; you _knew_ that! How could you be so stupid as to let something so incriminating slip?

“N…Nothing! I’m sorry; that was rude! Please, forget I said anything! I’ll behave, I promise!”

Any second now, Sans was going to come back. You’ve disobeyed a direct order, and now you’re going to lose a finger. Or worse….

“He was bluffing, you know.”

The warm paw on your shoulder helps slow your breaths before hyperventilation starts. “What?”

“It’s perfectly normal to have doubts about whether you’ve truly found ‘the one’ right before making this commitment. But the powder I used masks your soul so it can be properly unveiled to your mate during the ceremony. Many monsters have taken to using it the night before for…I suppose the closest human comparison would be what you refer to as bachelor or bachelorette parties? Is there someone else you feel your heart is calling you towards? If you wish to relive memories of past crushes or vent your concerns, your breach of the soul contract at this time will not cause Sans pain. Unless we tell him, any indiscretions stay between us.”

At the mention of bachelorette parties, your thoughts are instantly drawn to picturing what Amy and Jessie might have thrown together before your big day. Without a doubt, they would have been your bridesmaids.

They would have had the responsibility of dragging you to Vegas, where they would have way too much to drink and lose all the money they won gambling to stuffing the undergarments of the male erotic dancers they’d hire to entertain you. Their dresses would have been long and emerald green, to accent Jessie’s fiery red locks and Amy’s year-long tan. They would have given toasts at the reception with enough juicy material to bring tears to your eyes, both from embarrassment and endearment.

Now their only responsibility is to clean out your apartment and donate everything to charity shops. Unless the landlord has already thrown everything out.

All because of _him_ …

What you have is more than mere trepidations. But you can never voice that.

“There’s no one else. My dedication and devotion is to Sans.”

“Are you sure?”

And just like that, with only three words, your walls come crumbling down.

You’d thought it impossible to cry any more than you already have. Yet here you are, a blubbering, sobbing mess in front of this monster you barely know. As you teeter forward in the chair, Toriel steps forward and wraps you up in her arms.

There’s something about having a stranger who wants to know what you’re feeling. Who asks about your wellbeing and then offers no advice, just a hug. There’s no ill intent or maliciousness behind it. She’s not looking to gain anything from you. All she does is hold you tight and let you do all the talking, without interrupting once.

Through snot and salty tears, you tell her everything.

You bear your soul.

When you finally finish, it feels like the heavy load you’ve carried on your back for so long has finally lifted. You thought you’d gotten used to it, but the sheer relief that comes from its disappearance is enough to help lift your shoulders and allow you to sit straight for the first time in a long while. It’s not gone, just shoved into a corner of the cabin where you don’t need to look at it or even think about it.

“Oh, my child,” Toriel murmurs as you wipe your face. Your hands come back black and beige from a mixture of foundation and clumped mascara. “I don’t know what to say...”

As she pulls away, you finally get a good look at her robe. Something about it looks familiar…

“Those shapes…”

Toriel looks down. Across her chest is a bit of fabric in the shape of a shield. Inside the royal purple crest is a white circle in between two fluffy wings. Underneath is three triangles; the middle one is inverted.

“This is the Delta Rune. A very important symbol in monster culture. Among other things, it is the emblem of the royal family.”

“I’ve seen it before…in a dream.” Your soul thrums in agreement as an image from your dreams reappears. “There were stained glass windows…”

“We have not introduced this symbol to the humans yet…” Toriel frowns. “My child, I…I do not think that what you saw was a dream. I think it was one of Sans’ memories.”

“What?” How is that possible?

“Sans must have attempted a partial soul bond at some point without your knowledge. He must have felt incredibly desperate, as it’s an incredibly taboo practice. Monsters believe both parties involved should be able to express their intent during the bond, hence the reason we started the practice of the ceremony. When two souls bond, they exchange pieces. It allows the mates to share dreams, memories…it’s meant to bring the two closer together in every possible sense.”

If that happens, your every thought will be heard by Sans. You’ll never be free.

You grab Toriel’s closest paw. “Please. Please, you _have_ to get me out of here.” Surely she can find it in her heart to take the next step in helping you. She mentioned the crest being worn by monster royalty. She must be their queen; if that’s the case, she _must_ have the power to end this _union_.

Toriel’s face grows uncomfortable. “My child…I’m afraid I cannot. Sans is such an dear friend and an asset to the monster community. I would hate to destroy his happiness now that he has finally found it…He is a very strong monster; I have no doubt that everything he does, he does to keep you safe.”

Your heart stops.

“No…No, you have to!” How can she so quickly disregard all the horrible things you just told her? “Weren’t you listening? He _raped_ me!”

Toriel winces at your shrieked choice of words. “I do wish you wouldn’t use such a vulgar word. Fate has chosen to place the two of you together. Any intercourse between you can hardly be defined as rape.”

Oh, she wants to muddle definitions with shitty technicalities that no sane person would agree with? Well you’ll give her something she won’t be able to argue with…

You rip the front of your dress, fully exposing your chest and the letters that have been permanently burned into your skin. “He _branded_ me!”

“Physical marking is a bit excessive, but it’s certainly not illegal…” Toriel frowns. “I don’t understand. Are you not proud to bear your soulmate’s mark?”

_“He’s NOT my soulmate!”_

This is only the second time you’ve said this out loud. Yet while the strength of your scream is the same, it doesn’t feel the same once it’s out in the open. But there’s one thing that still holds true after all this time.

“Please…I can’t stay trapped in this cabin for the rest of my life…”

Toriel bites her lip and gives you a sympathetic look.

“Ask him about monster rights.”

Before you can ask her to clarify, a comb bites into your scalp. Toriel resumes your preparations. By the way she tugs and pulls, it’s clear she’s no longer interested in talking.

As she styles your hair and retouches your makeup, your brain and heart go back to arguing inside of you.

He _can’t_ be your soulmate, your brain insists.

He took you away from the only life you’ve ever known and convinced everybody you know that you’ve killed yourself. He’s _murdered_ people.

Despite it all, you can’t bring yourself to hold the same amount of conviction in this belief as you once did. It feels almost…false. Your heart and soul retaliate against the logic with their own reasoning that can’t be denied or ignored. 

He’s also supplied you with a roof over your head. Food. Clothes. By locking up all the sharp objects and making the glass shatter-proof, he’s ensured you don’t have the ability to self-harm. He saved you from freezing to death in the woods.

Sans was right all along; you are confused.

Weight settles on top of you again, this time in the form of a white gown. Your body swims in the luxurious fabric and patterning. It probably cost more than a year’s worth of your school tuition.

After zipping up the back, Toriel comes around and holds up the hand mirror.

You finally see what Sans sees.

He took a scarred up, lonely girl who had no idea what she was doing with her life, and guided her towards a purpose. Told her that no matter what anybody else had thought in the past, she was beautiful to him.

You hold _worth_ to him.

Would it really be so bad to feel yesterday’s joy again? You’re bonding with someone. That was the whole reason behind this ceremony. By uniting, he was ensuring you never forgot how important you were to him.

How much you rely on him to survive. 

“i’m back.”

Looking up through your tears, you see that while out, Sans has changed into a black tuxedo and trousers. His undershirt is white, but the bowtie at his neck is the same shade as your soul. A golden flower, identical to the ones that now crown your head, is pinned to his left lapel.

He takes you by the hand and pulls you closer for inspection. “why are you crying, sweetheart?”

You can’t speak. Your mouth flaps like a fish out of water. Sniffles keep your nose from running, but there’s nothing to stop your eyes. You want to dab at them, but Sans lifts a claw up and wipes the tears away himself, careful not to ruin Toriel’s carefully fixed makeup.

You can hear the smile in the goat monster’s voice as she watches your display of affection. “She’s just a little emotional, Sans. This is a big day.”

Sans grins, but doesn’t take his eye sockets off you. “oh, trust me, i know. i’ve been waiting my whole lifetime for this moment.”

He truly doesn’t know what happened in this last hour. All the pain and turmoil you put yourself through for no good reason. That only makes you cry harder.

Wrapping his arm around your shoulders, Sans digs into his pocket. A familiar brown shape is pressed against your painted lips.

“something sweet should get rid of those tears…”

 _Don’t eat it…_.

The thought lasts less than a millisecond. You already know what you have to do.

You can’t let a sour mood ruin Sans’ happiness for this once-in-a-lifetime moment.

With just one bite, your self-misery washes away. When Sans shoves his fingers into your mouth, you even gain the courage to suck the melted remnants from his bones, resulting in a deep purr from him.

Finally he removes his saliva covered hand and cups your face, staring at you like you’re his most precious treasure.

“i can’t wait to know every inch of that pretty little soul...”

Maybe it’s the rush of your magic chocolate high combined with your own natural endorphins and hormones. Maybe it’s the glam of wearing what feels like a wedding dress. Maybe it’s a million other things that are happening in this moment.

But the idea of sharing your second heart with him doesn’t feel as scary as it did earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned, next week's chapter will be the Ceremony! Here comes the bride!  
> Also, the next one may or may not be revealing Y/N's soul color, so now's your last chance for any guesses as to what it is! :D 
> 
> Warnings/Tags: Mentions of a wound, smoking, threats, abuse (physical, verbal, emotional/psychological) (Also some mentions of past abuse/sexual assault, though not graphic), drugging.


	19. Ceremonial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's in the cabin.  
> She's signed the contract.  
> She's endured the purification process.  
> Only one step remains to make this official. But Y/N's life will never be the same if she takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The moment I've been dying to get to for the longest time!  
> I really hope you all enjoy it; I've had some of the ideas for this chapter since around the time I was writing earlier events.  
> The response to this story continues to amaze and astound me, and I just cannot thank everyone enough for all the support and enthusiasm it has received. I love you all, and can't wait to read and respond to your comments!
> 
> Not as many warnings and tags for this chapter, but I'll leave them in the End Notes just in case.  
> I hope you enjoy! Now, on with the show!

It happens in the living room.

This space, which has become such a staple in life with Sans seems the most appropriate given your limited options. With the exception of a new fire raging in the hearth, it is unchanged in appearance.

Yet with what is about to ensue, everything feels different.

The heat from the flames is more intense. The glare of afternoon sun through the window more blinding. The trees outside that used to beckon you more unreachable.

Everything is _more_.

Toriel stands on one side of the coffee table holding a leather-bound tome. Dust from the withered pages manages to reach your nose despite you and your soon-to-be mate being on the opposite end of the table. Facing Sans, it takes an incredible amount of willpower not to sneeze in his face. Mercifully, the moment passes.

With the amount of fabric billowing around you, you’d been worried about feeling heavy. But standing here, the expanse of white and shimmer more resembles a cloud trying to lift you up and carry you away.

Sans reaches out and takes your hands. The weight helps to plant your feet on the ground.

Toriel smiles warmly at the both of you. “Friends,” she begins. “I am honored to stand here as officiant and witness to this most blessed of occasions.”

Sans squeezes your fingers, which have disappeared in the size difference. It doesn’t eliminate the tingling that’s beginning to spread up your arms. Even though the magic racing through your system has washed away your sorrow and replaced it with what can only be described as an induced bliss, it can’t eliminate your nerves.

_What if I make a mistake? What if I screw up so badly that this doesn’t work?_

“Standing here, with the two of you, I can think of no pairing better fitted. But ultimately, this is not my decision to make.” 

_What if he changes his mind?_

Toriel turns to Sans.

“Sans, do you accept the choice made by your soul to take _(y/n) (l/n)_ as your bonded mate?”

“i do.”

You shouldn’t have expected anything less.

Though he smiles at you, even on what’s supposedly the happiest day of his life, he can’t quite rid his voice of its curtness. Those two words aren’t dragged out. There’s no lingering on the syllables, like they leave a sweet taste he wants to hold on to.

To him, this phrase isn’t a rare delicacy, the likes of which he will never taste again. There are no hidden meanings behind it for you to interpret or dig in and find.

“ _(Y/N)_ , in being selected, this means Sans’ soul has deemed your own to be its most ideal fit. Do you accept the choice made by Sans’ soul for you to take the place of his bonded mate?”

It’s a simple fact. Cut and dry. It falls on you to add the warmth.

The answer to make him happy is obvious. It should be easy. But this added responsibility adds to the lump in your throat threatening to choke you out. Though this is clearly a private ceremony, it feels like there are a million eyes staring at you from all directions. A hush falls in the room. As though the world is holding its breath in anticipation of how you’ll deliver your answer.

“I…I…I…”

_Focus on Sans._

He doesn’t even have true eyes, but his gaze is the only one that requires your attention. The hypnotizing red glow coming from his left side draws your stare and loosens your tongue.

“I…I do.”

“Then let us proceed.” Toriel opens her mouth to start another speech, but before she can get too deep into it, Sans cuts her off.

“can we skip the useless prattle and just focus on the important stuff? we’ve been waiting a long time for this, and i just really want to make it official.”

Toriel stiffens, but after a deep, cleansing breath she gives Sans a patient smile and nods once in affirmation. After skipping a couple of pages in her book, she starts speaking again.

“Souls are mysterious things. No one knows where they come from. They grow with us, from conception to the day we pass. But unlike our other body parts, they seem to have minds of their own. Sometimes they know us better than we know ourselves. One thing is clear though; our souls always strive for what is in our best interests. Which is why we must place our entire trust in the decisions they make for us, as you two have just done.”

As though it can sense it’s being spoken about, your soul gives a flutter, like it has suddenly sprouted wings and wants to fly out of you. Sans’ stare towards you intensifies.

For a flickering moment, you wonder if he can sense it. If, even just a few minutes and one step into this ceremony, his soul is already communicating with yours on a deeper level.

“Have you the rings?”

In response to Toriel’s gentle inquiry, a deep cyan glow blooms from the gaping hole in Sans’ skull. It must be moving through his entire body, because soon it seeps through the sleeves of his tuxedo, and pools out from the bottoms of his pants. The brightest glow originates from his pants pocket, where two hinged boxes are lifted without Sans breaking his hold on you.

“In bonding, your souls will forever produce an essence that announces you both as claimed. This is like a feeling, except this emotion will be so heightened no other experience could possibly replicate it. While most monsters will be able to sense this, these rings are a physical representation for those who cannot, as well as a constant reminder to the both of you of the infinite nature of this union you are partaking in, for times when your souls are not visible. _(Y/N),_ please take this ring, and slide it onto the fourth finger on Sans’ left hand.”

The first box snaps open, and a simple golden band drops towards your palm. Sans is forced to relinquish his grip, which has been doing a phenomenal job of keeping your trembles at bay. The release automatically allows them to resume, and when the metal makes contact with your skin, it acts as a conductor for the firing of your axons. Rather than sealing shut, your fingers jolt, and the ring falls.

Just before it hits the floor, it’s caught in a cloud of cyan mist. It lifts the band back up to your hand level. This time it refuses to drop the ring into your palm, probably not wanting a repeat of what just happened. To take it back, you have to reach inside.

It feels like dipping your hand in a bathtub full of warm water; once it breaks through the barrier, it just wants to keep going until it’s entirely submerged. The swirling and churning of the scentless fumes soothe your muscles, and slowly, they still. The gentle wisps entangle around your ligaments, elaborately maneuvering them to pinch the ring.

As the magic puppeteers your limb back towards Sans, a sudden burst of boldness encourages your lips, teeth, and tongue to also work together in silent teamwork. It’s gone faster than it arrived, and this particular combination of puckers and flexes still feels a little foreign to your mouth. But you hope that even without sound, Sans is able to interpret the message. 

_I love you._

Once around the tip of Sans’ finger, momentum carries the ring the rest of the way down until it hits his knuckle. You don’t even hear when Toriel instructs Sans to place your ring, too focused on watching his face.

His muted response is even shorter, but it’s enough to spread the heat in your cheeks to your ears and even up to your hairline.

_i know._

The feeling of cold alloy being driven down your finger and binding to the flesh leads you to lift your left hand. Your ring is not just a simple band like the one Sans picked for himself. In fact, it looks more like an engagement ring. The top of the white gold band is inlaid with a single row of crystalline diamonds, as well as a sparkling design that surrounds the uppermost gem.

The intricate design reminds you of a Celtic knot with the way the strings of jewels intertwine, but the shape is all wrong. It almost looks square, but the corners are rounded, like flower petals. It takes you a second, but you finally figure it out.

It’s two hearts inside of each other, one right side up, and the second upside down. The pointed bottoms connect to the dented grooves where the two humps meet to form the complete shape. At the very middle of the fusion is a diamond shape, where the center gem sits. This one has been treated so that it shimmers the same shade as your soul.

Is that what it will look like when your souls fuse?

When you look back, Toriel has set her book down on the coffee table, and is rustling through one of her bags on the sofa. When she turns back around, she holds two flowerpots, one in each hoofed paw.

“It is time for the proclamation of vows,” she announces. “Sans, please take an Echo Flower, and repeat after me.”

Echo Flower? Your interest is piqued, and you watch with rapt curiosity as Sans selects the closest pot. Toriel settles on the couch, tracing a line of text in her book with her free hand.

“I, Sans, promise to commit my life and magic to the constant betterment of our endless union.”

“i, Sans, promise to commit my life and magic to the constant betterment of our endless union.”

_“i, Sans, promise to commit my life and magic to the constant betterment of our endless union.”_

You startle as the blue petals of the flower light up, and Sans’ voice comes pouring up and out from the stigma. Once the source of the plant’s name dies off, Toriel slowly guides Sans through the second sentence, carefully enunciating so there can be no mistake as to what’s required. “All of my soul’s love, hope, and compassion is your love, hope and compassion.”

“all of my soul’s love, hope, and compassion is your love, hope and compassion.”

Again, the flower echoes him, much clearer than any recording device could possibly sound. His voice is so strong and certain as it spills out through the petals. Every time a vow finishes resonating, it feels sealed.

“every thought, dream, and memory, i promise to confide them all in you.”

Confirmed.

“i will be faithful in good times and bad, when you fall down, and when you’re healthy. whether we have nothing, or we have everything, i will share my piece of it with you.”

Permanent.

“all these things i swear, until to dust do i turn.”

Once this final affirmation has finished slipping its way into your heart, Toriel turns and encourages you to pick up a flowerpot. Holding the ceramic feels as sacred as throwing a penny into a wishing fountain, or writing your secrets in a diary.

“And now, _(y/n)_ , repeat after me. I, _(y/n)_ , promise to commit my life and magic to the constant betterment of our endless union.”

“I, (y/n), promise to commit my life and magic…”

And so it goes. Again, Toriel recites a sentence, you follow, and your flower always ends your little trio. You start off stuttering a little, but as you grow more confident, it begins to feel like you’re singing in a round, with voices constantly looping and repeating what the person beforehand said.

Your soul throbs every time you finish speaking. Though Toriel mentioned that Sans’ soul was the dominant one, these vows are the nearly identical for both of you. Despite the fact that you’re a human, the only alteration is in the second line.

“All of my determination, bravery, justice, kindness, patience, integrity, and perseverance is your determination, bravery, justice, kindness, patience, integrity, and perseverance.”

That must mean that they’re trying to encourage fairness, and equal treatment for the both of you, right?

These are promises of support. Faithfulness. Honoring one’s duty to the other.

These are things one promises when they are filled with good intent, aren’t they?

Maybe you should have been more willing to do this earlier. Maybe this would have saved you a lot of grief.

“All these things i swear, until to dust do I turn.”

After the last sentence slips into silence, Toriel spares a glance between the two of you.

“Before I seal these sacred vows into the Echo Flowers, do either of you have personal vows you would like to share amongst each other?”

Sans adjusts his grip on his flowerpot, and the red hue of his eye socket sparks like a flare. “i’ve been saying everything i wanna say since Day One, and i’ll continue to every chance i get, so your cute little brain never forgets it. i need you so much it drives me crazy. stark raving mad. and in doing so, i’ll do anything to keep us together. every reward, every punishment. whatever it takes to remind you i’m the only one who’ll ever love you and that you need me just as bad.”

After he shrugs in finality, Toriel turns to you. “( _Y/N_ )?”

You’ve never been much of a public speaker, and with this happening so suddenly, you never really had a chance to write anything down. But it feels like this would be incomplete without a little something personal.

“With a name like Sans, I never would have dreamed that someone like me would be your _type_.”

He shakes his head and chuckles at the joke. The sound encourages you to keep going despite the burning flush under your skin.

“Just…thank you, I guess. You opened my eyes to so many truths that I was blind to. I know I’m a mess, but I’m going to work really hard to keep making myself better for you. I love you Sans. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

There’s no doubt this is happening now. This is how you officially lose your old identity and regain a new one.

He holds himself like royalty, coming to claim his rightful dues. But you won’t be his queen, no. That kind of union has always been merely political. This relationship _can’t_ be just a demonstration of his power and strength. You refuse to believe that’s all this will amount to. Internally, you swear to be his courtesan, his most intimate companion.

So much red emits from Sans’ eye that it saturates the flower he’s holding, transforming the azure shade into a rich violet. Will he be able to use your power once this is completed? Surely if it does, he’d use it responsibly? He wouldn’t be reckless or abuse it

Right?

You don’t know why this hasn’t crossed your mind until now.

“Very good. Now Sans, please remove your soul, then help _(y/n)_ to remove hers. It is time to commend these representations of your beings to each other.”

Panic slips past your intoxicated state as the memories from all the times you’ve had your soul taken out already flash before you like a fever dream. You try to take a step backward, but find your legs refuse to move. Your hands holding the flowerpot go slack, but they do not fall by your sides.

They can’t. What started off as a comforting enchantment meant to steady your hand has spread while you were preoccupied with repeating the vows. Now, everything from your neck down is frozen. All you can do now is shake your head frantically. Even that grows challenging as thin tendrils break off from the cloud.

“No. No, no, no…” They pulse and constrict as they wrap around your neck, stiffening every cell. Your blood has turned to sludge. Your lungs are struggling, trying to heave, but every breath feels stolen from you. It’s as though your life force is being transferred into this mass, imbuing it with life. Killing you to begin your rebirth.

“No, no, no, it’s going to hurt. Please, Sans, wasn’t I good? Wasn’t I good for you?”

Your strangled pleas are cut short as Sans steps forward and cups your head in his hands. Shushing you softly, he runs his claws down the sides of your face. His ring catches in the wispy baby hairs that couldn’t be contained.

“Please don’t make me. Please don’t make me…”

“Sans, if she is not comfortable removing her soul, we could always—”

“butt out, Toriel,” Sans snarls, and in this moment, you feel like you’re about to pass out. Sans lays a hand flat against the sweetheart neckline of your gown, smack dab in the middle of your chest. His appendages so close to your breasts reminds you of just a few nights ago, when you’d offered him everything and he’d refused to take it. The brand on your shoulder blade throbs. Wondering why he hadn’t taken you up on it, having something else to think about, slows your breaths. When they’re back to a normal rate, Sans speaks to you slowly.

“this is what we have to do, sweetheart. it’s just for a few minutes. then it’ll go right back in your chest, and you'll have part of me with you forever. you’ve been so good so far.”

He starts off talking as though explaining some big complicated concept to a child. But when you again hesitate, it turns into the potential of a rebuke.

“you just promised to be better for me. you don’t want to break that promise already, do you? you want to keep making me happy, don’t you?”

You sniffle and force your head to nod. At the motion, Sans smiles and pats your cheek.

“atta girl. focus on the pretty flowers. listen to the sound of my voice.”

You do. As he rubs your chest and coaxes your soul out, you listen to his flower whispering vows with your flower. Reminding you of all that you’ve sworn to share with him.

But as beautiful as it is, listening to the repeating exchange, it’s not enough for you not to notice that awful familiar emptiness that settles in once your pulsing second heart leaves your body.

"it'll be over before you know it, sweetheart."

It’s not enough to distract you when Sans carefully guides your pulsing second heart inches away from his white one, fitting the two between his hands.

“now, as is destined, two shall become one..."

It’s definitely not enough to stop the nuclear blast that whites out your vision when in one violent _clap!_ he smashes them together.

****

_Hungry._

_You were so **hungry.** _

_When was the last time you’d eaten a full meal? You couldn’t remember anymore._

_Where was Papyrus? It wasn’t his turn to go hunting today._

_“How could you?!”_

_An angry female’s voice roars outside._

_“PLEASE, UNDYNE, LET ME EXPLAIN!”_

_Papyrus?_

_You open the front door to an argument going on outside between an armored fish woman and your brother_

_'Your’ brother?_

_"There’s nothing to explain! There’s no point trying to hide it; the evidence is right behind you!” The monster jabs a gilled finger in the taller skeleton’s direction._

_He shifts to the right. But it’s not fast enough to conceal the sight of something behind him. You’re too far away to make out what it is._

_"You’re a fucking TRAITOR!”_

_Something stronger than rage is driving her. You don’t know what it is, but in this moment, she is undying._

_She draws the arm holding her spear back, and as it surges forward, your starved mind finally kicks back to work and screams at you to **protect**. _

_White hot pain rockets through your skull. But it’s not enough to stop you from swinging the axe that’s magically appeared in your hands._

_Wetness splashes against your face, and everything starts to spin._

_The last color you see before everything goes dark is red._

_The red of Papyrus’ scarf being wrapped around your head._

_The red of blood staining the snow as the fish’s decapitated body melts and then scatters to dust._

_The red of a disappearing soul just released from the entrapment of an encounter._

_\---_

_Hungry._

_You were so **hungry.** _

_Wait…this feels familiar…_

_Of course it does. Hunger is your natural state now._

_You’re about to dismiss the thought. Until you reach up to scratch your head._

_Your fingers slip inside your skull._

_\---_

_This feels like more than déjà vu._

_“How could you?!”_

_At least this time you get manage to get a good look at the human before you black out._

_“TRAITOR!”_

_Blue and pink striped shirt. Brown hair trimmed into a bowl cut. And that fucking red soul._

_As Papyrus calls your name, begging you not to fall asleep, they stand over you. Their eyes are wide with shock, hands covering their mouth. Then, they whirl around, and you watch them grab for what looks like a glowing yellow diamond._

_It reminds you of a star._

_\---_

_After the eighth time, they must realize that there are some events that can’t be undone. You try to follow them, but for a human they manage to keep themselves pretty discrete. It’s only when you hear the ancient music of the piano puzzle in Waterfall that you locate them._

_It’s easy to catch them off guard._

_One swing of your hand, and a gust of magic catches their dancing limbs. You slam them back first against the statue hard enough that it loses its umbrella._

_How **dare** they dance in a place like this?_

_They try to scramble to their feet, but their legs give out from underneath them. One is twisted at an unnatural angle. There’s nowhere for them to go._

_The sound of their racing, thundering soul-beat makes your own soul shriek in triumph._

_You’ve done it._

_Papyrus will have a true life._

_You’ll get to see the stars again. The **real** stars. _

_Drinking in the ecstasy, your sockets slip shut as you swing your axe down in one fell swoop._

_You shouldn’t have closed your eyes._

_\---_

_One._

_You just need one more._

_Then this nightmare will be over._

_But no matter how hard you try, **it** always manages to escape. _

_And then everything starts all over again._

_\---_

_Counting is pointless._

_How many times are they going to make you relive everything?_

_Too many._

_\---_

_Ancient monster legends speak of an angel that would come down and make the Underground go empty._

_They’re certainly good at acting angelic, sparing every monster they come across. Mourning the loss of Undyne with Alphys. Comforting that talking flower when he starts crying at the sight of the castle in the distance._

_But standing over them in this golden room, magic used to hold them in place, they can’t fool you._

_"Please…there must be some other way.”_

_You ignore their pleas. Their own actions may have been those of mercy. Their stats may be squeaky clean. But they should be burning in hell._

_You see them for the demon they are._

_Their soul is red after all._

_“Please, Sans, let me try again…”_

_They’re never going to stop on their own, are they?_

_You’ve seen them make mistakes. Die by the hands of other monsters. Each time, they always came back. No one else was any the wiser. No one else remembered._

_You have to be the one to end this._

_Only then will everyone be freed._

_Roaring in rage, you bring your axe up and over your head._

_This time, when it comes falling down, you keep your eyes open._

_They cough, and red bubbles up, painting their quivering lips. It takes all their quickly evaporating strength to mouth two words._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_You use magic to carry the final soul to Asgore. The thought of using your hands makes you sick. You refuse to touch it._

_As the barrier finally comes crumbling down, and you get your first taste of fresh air, a fiery red sunset is the first thing to greet you after an eternity of darkness._

_Red, red, red. You’ll never be rid of that color._

_Your first thoughts as you follow the rest of the surviving monsters down the side of the mountain aren’t of forgiveness._

_They’re of something much darker._

****

Coming to feels like you’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning. Twice.

How long did that last for? It feels like an eternity has passed reliving those memories like they were yours. They felt like they were yours, but definitely were _not_ yours.

The minute hand on your watch has only shifted five places.

You’re dizzy and dazed, but now you’ve gotten the first of what is soon to be many tastes of what’s underneath Sans’ hard surface. One step closer to understanding him.

In his vows, he promised to give you all the compassion in his soul. You should have realized that he has none to give.

But maybe if you share some of yours, along with your other traits, he can change.

He’s not a bad guy, really. He’s just been through a lot.

Maybe in bringing this to completion, you can fix him like he fixed you.

After all the pain he’s endured, he doesn’t deserve disappointment.

He deserves to be happy too.

There’s only one soul floating between the two of you. 

He must have already returned his own to his chest, because the scar from when he bit this one what feels like ages ago identifies it as yours.

The whole thing has a new tint from mixing with the luminescent white of Sans’ soul. But overall, it still glows with the same persistent vibrancy.

As Sans guides it closer to you, Toriel’s voice grows clearer and easier to understand.

“…May your fights always end in reconciliation. May your acts always contribute to the benefit of one another. May every item you obtain be shared amongst you. And above all, may you show each other mercy when it is warranted.”

When it slips back into your chest, your new purpose makes it feel lighter than it did before.

Toriel smiles and spreads her arms out in front of her.

“I now pronounce the two of you, as bonded. Sans, you may kiss your mate.”

At that moment, the magic holding your body in place dissipates. Before you can drop, Sans scoops you up in his embrace, and dips you backward. You wrap your newly freed arms around his neck.

When he plants his teeth against your lips to seal the deal, the kiss is not the most memorable one he’s given you since meeting you.

But it is the one that makes your soul thrum the hardest.

****

Afterward, Toriel insists on staying to cook everybody dinner. Papyrus arrives just as it’s being served, to extend his congratulations. He’s brought a camera and something sealed in wrapping paper.

It’s an empty photo album, the front cover bearing the title, “Family Memories.”

“FOR ALL OF SANS’ PHOTOS IN HIS OFFICE,” Papyrus explains. “AND FOR THE MANY HAPPY MOMENTS THE FUTURE HAS TO OFFER THE TWO OF YOU.”

He insists on giving a toast. You’re still feeling slightly dazed from the ceremony, and his volume is a little too much for your brain to concentrate on. As you’re recovering from your momentary deafness, he insists on a group hug. Sans is the first to break away, but when you go to follow, Papyrus holds you in place. What he says next is the only thing that doesn’t sound like ringing alarm bells.

“WELCOME TO OUR FAMILY, _(Y/N)_!”

Toriel finishes the meal with a homemade butterscotch pie. You and Sans handfeed each other a slice, and everybody laughs as the desert gets smooshed in your faces.

What little of the flaky crust makes it to your tongue instantly brings up a memory of standing in a kitchen that hadn’t belonged to you. The pie filling turns from sweet to saccharine, making your teeth ache as the one time your makeshift maternal figure tried to teach you how to bake replays in front of your eyes.

As though you’ve called his name, Sans’ eyes swing to you. The red light narrows to the width of a laser beam. You shove the image of Ms. Peterson away, hold up another bite of pie in his direction, and pose for another picture for your new family.

When it’s finally time for Toriel and Papyrus to leave, you hug and thank them both for everything they’ve done for you. Sans is the one to guide them to the front door.

Before they leave, he mumbles quiet conversation that your tired brain insists you have no need to pay attention to. Instead, you flick the petals of the two Echo Flowers, wanting the ceremony vows to be permanently etched into your memory.

When the two of you are left to your own devices, Sans scoops you up Prince-Charming style. As you lean into his front, a whisper slithers its way up your ear canal.

_“i knew sooner or later i’d make you mine.”_

Sans’ voice does not come out of his mouth, or from his Echo Flower. It scratches along your brain, and implants itself inside the crevices of your mind, announcing its permanent residency. Testing the waters, you mentally vow to give him the fair chance he deserves.

The responding rumble in his ribcage causes the center of your bright yellow soul to thrum with newfound power.

_“and so, the judge and his lovely Lady Justice get to live happily ever after.”_

Does ‘happily ever after’ start as soon as a couple ties the knot? Does that wash away all the previous pain and hurt and count as justice?

Before you can agree or disagree, Sans carries you into the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Psychological abuse, soulbonding (The whole ceremony could be considered dubcon as Y/N is drugged during it), mentions of murders. 
> 
> So, there you have it! Y/N's soul color is yellow!  
> There were a lot of great guesses as to what it was, and some of you were actually right, so good job to those people!  
> I've read a lot of Undertale and Horrortale stories where the main character's soul was Red or Purple, and while I love those choices and definitely see how they could apply in a story like this, I wanted to try something a little different. I've had a lot of fun playing around with the character trait of being just, and can't wait to see how it contributes to (y/n)'s state of mind and actions in later chapters. 
> 
> Also, as a fun little tidbit, I took the Harry Potter sorting quiz and tried to answer based on what (y/n) would answer, and got Hufflepuff! Their house color is yellow, and they value justice among other traits. Coincidence? I think NOT! :D


	20. *Coming Apart*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything falls apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the consummation, and as such, contains graphic sexual content. As always, detailed warnings/tags will be in the end notes. Please proceed with caution, and if you are concerned about triggers, feel free to check them before reading. 
> 
> This was not an easy chapter for me to write. I love and appreciate all who read this story. Thank you for your support. <3

Sans kicks the door open so hard, the knob sticks into the wood of the wall behind it. Crossing under the archway feels like entering another reality. The dimensions of the bedroom warp around you.

Collagen practically buzzing, he settles you into a standing position. A moment passes as he attempts to gather himself by grazing his eyes up and down your form. You feel naked as a newborn babe, and he hasn’t even asked you to take your dress off yet.

His uncontrolled excitement doesn’t seem to impact his physical capacities. They’re all over the place; his grip has an iron-clad strength when he takes your hand in his, but when he coaxes your other arm up and around the back of his neck, it’s a gentle movement. It’s clear his entire fixation is on what he wants and how to get it. Once his free arm cups the small of your back, there’s a not-so-subtle nudge forward that pins your fronts together. Head trapped against his shoulder, your hair does little to cushion the hard ridges of his bones.

Gently, he starts to sway, and your body is forced to mirror his movements. Left, right, left right.

The first and last time you danced with someone until now was your high school prom with Andrew. Now you’re dancing with death. How much more macabre can this become?

His mind keeps humming the chorus to that song you used to love. Without a way to shut it off, the tune’s repetitive loop only serves to add to your growing agitated state. The magic he gave you before must be wearing off.

You look anywhere but at Sans. The ceiling, the walls. Your head dips until your gaze locks with the yellow eyes of your feline companion. She peers up at you from her hiding place under the bed. You hate the fact that it feels like she’s judging you.

This is going to happen, whether you like it or not. You’ve conceded to this fact already. You’re a wife now. But that old, familiar dread is building itself back up.

_What if I say the wrong things at the wrong times?_

_What if I don’t do a good enough job?_

Sans has obviously been building up this experience in his mind.

_What if I can’t live up to his fantasies?_

_What if he **hates** being with me?_

_You’re not ready to die._

Sudden compression around your rear makes you jump. Your eyes fly back up to Sans. You hadn’t even felt his hand travelling lower down your body.

“you’re so tense, sweetheart.” The wide skirt of your ball-gown does nothing to dissuade him from continuing to grope the region. “not having second thoughts now, are you? the ceremony’s over; it’s too late to turn back now.”

You shake your head. “I’m…I’m just nervous.” Your mouth feels so dry.

“nothing to be nervous about. just follow my lead. we’ll figure out how to best utilize your _ass_ -ets together.”

Sans spins you in a full rotation, and in that moment, a glimmer of hope tries to take residence inside you. Maybe he’s willing to go slow, and work with you to figure out how best to make both of you get some pleasure out of this.

Then he slams you front first against the bedroom wall.

“let’s start off by making you a little more comfortable.” His hot breath searing the back of your neck leaves it damp. It’s the only part of your body that’s wet right now.

There’s no delicacy in removing your gown. He doesn’t even take the time to unzip the back; the fabric rips as easily as tissue paper and falls to the ground in a careless heap. For now, he leaves your bra and panties, a thankless grace.

“where should we start, hmm?” He’s drunk with lust; his soul reeks of it as he pins you harder against the wall. There’s absolutely no leeway for you. The grain of the wood is imprinting into your cheek. “i could take you from behind right here. make you scream so loud the sound ingrains into the wood and echoes around us when we’re trying to sleep.”

You despise the rush his twisted words sends coursing down to your center. “S…stop it…”

He doesn’t even seem to hear you. If he does, the protest only serves to spur him on.

“or maybe the floor? i bet you’d love writhing beneath me on the ground.”

The only barrier between you and the hand that’s sliding in between your thighs is your panties. You brace yourself for the feel of having those torn off too.

But then he pauses.

“no…” he withdraws his hand. “we’ve got all night to christen every surface in the fucking cabin if we want. a classy gal like you should experience her _first_ time on a bed. it’s only right.”

He pulls back, but before you can deliver a swift back kick to his groin, you lose your chance. Your limbs grow heavy as a cloud of cyan steals the gravity from under your feet and flies you to the king-sized mattress.

Sans throws his tuxedo jacket off as the magic lays your body down. The soft texture of the sheets is clearly meant to draw out your reservations as you sink into them. But when Sans tears your underwear away with the same heedless energy, they only settle in deeper. He pries your legs apart; the counteracting cold air that hits as he settles them atop his shoulders raises your guard to astronomic heights.

“S…Slow down!”

“relax, sweetheart,” he purrs. He slides down and positions his mouth over you. His hot breath against your core makes goosebumps prick the back of your neck. “you’re in good hands.” Confidence drips from every word.

He gives you no warning. No chance to brace yourself.

The moment his tongue makes contact with your inner walls, a shuddering gasp spills out of you. Sans drinks it up like nectar.

“goddamn it, sweetheart. i _knew_ this pussy would be worth the wait.” Viscous saliva helps to lubricate his gelatinous appendage. With a wanton disregard for how unprepared you were for how this was going to make you feel, he laves it over your slit. The higher it slides, the harder your fingers clench the sheets in anticipation. They’re acting on their own accord, completely uncontrolled by your brain in this moment.

As he draws it back down again, you try to steel yourself. You swear that you’re not going to make another sound. You won’t allow yourself to derive a single drop of pleasure from this experience. But as soon as he prods again, all resolve flies out the window.

He skins you with his tongue. Every stroke, every flick and flex peels back your layers, tempting you to forgo logic and just give in to the sheer emotions he’s drawing out. Your nerves feel like they’re short-circuiting. Sparks dance in your vision.

Why does he have to make this feel so _good_?

He grazes a particular bundle of nerves, and your back arches under the stimulation.

“do you like that, sweetheart?”

No. No, you absolutely do not _like_ being manhandled and assaulted by a monster who stole you away and has hurt you in more ways than you can imagine. And yet you find yourself trying to get closer. Trying to spread your legs wider.

As soon as more access is granted, he’s filling the space, claiming every inch as his. He licks the same spot again. “is that it? right there?”

A warbling cry bursts out of you, with no discernible words attached to it.

“tell me who’s making you feel this way. let me hear you scream it.”

You can’t scream. He’s stolen all your oxygen. All you can pant out is a drawn out, “Oh _god_ …”

“close, but no cigar.” His claws dig into the flesh of your thigh muscles. You can feel the beginnings of puncture marks. Any harder, and he’ll draw blood. “come on sweetheart. say my name.”

You open your mouth.

But release comes before you can obey.

Sans latches onto your now sopping entrance like it’s delivering water from the purest oasis. He’s acting like a man who’s been wandering lost in the desert for days. He even licks his lips afterwards, not wanting to waste a drop.

After it’s over, you’re spent. You sink back down on the mattress, sick with disgust in yourself for being able to obtain gratification in this. Too tired to put your mask back up.

Sans caresses the skin of your legs, forcing the limbs up to bend at the knees. When he reaches your ankles, he pauses.

“fuck, you’re a goddess. you taste like the sweetest ambrosia. almost makes me wanna do it again so I can bottle it up and save it.”

If this is all he does with you tonight, then maybe you can convince yourself to not feel guilty for your reaction.

“i bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? you came before i even got a chance to tell you to. come on, sweetheart. beg for me this time. sing like the eager _slut_ you just proved you are.”

In that split second, your soul riles up.

One of your feet flies up and catches him on the chin.

It happens so fast, he has no time to dodge. It’s a direct shot, with enough force behind the kick that his teeth clash together. And as soon as the solid ‘thunk’ finishes reverberating in his skull, a feeling of dread settles into your soul.

You’re so _stupid_.

You’ve made a _terrible_ mistake.

_You’re **not** **ready** to die. _

Sans lifts a hand to the affected area, as if he has to feel it to confirm it actually happened. His metacarpals ghost across the surface. Grey flakes of dust rain through the cracks.

He stills.

And then…

…

…

He _laughs_.

“ _there’s_ that spark…i _knew_ it was in there somewhere. just had to find the right trigger. i was almost starting to get bored, the way you’ve been moping around lately.” Nursing his jaw, he surges up so his entire body covers yours. All of his weight on top of you is suffocating.

When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his tongue.

”naughty, naughty girl,” he nips and tugs at your bottom lip with too much enthusiasm. The metallic taste of blood intermingles with the results of your waving orgasm, leaving you dizzy. You’ve barely begun to recharge, muscles still shaky and weak. Sans takes advantage of all of that. Effortlessly, he flips you so you’re lying prone on the bed. More magic forces your body to contort and pins you in his desired position as he peels his shirt off.

“i was good to you, sweetheart. now it’s time for you to be good to me.”

There’s the sound of a belt buckle being loosened.

Tears wet the fabric plastered against your face. “not like this,” you gasp out. “please, don’t do this!”

“you know why i didn’t take you when you offered, even though i wanted nothing more than to leave you a ravaged heap in my arms?”

Sans situates himself behind you, resting his hips just above your own, which are now slightly raised. You tense further.

“even though you said you trusted me, there was still a chance that deep down, you didn’t mean it. that if i broke that contract rule, your soul would have shattered and i’d be left with nothing. it would have killed me.”

_If only you’d pushed a little bit harder…_

_You’re such a weakling…_

He unclasps the hook and eye fastening of your bra with expert proficiency. A shudder courses through you when his hand traces down the center of your back, between the valley of your shoulder blades.

“but your body belongs to me now. you promised it to me, along with your mind and soul. so now, i make all the rules. you don’t get to decide when or how i have you.”

He lines himself up. A metallic zip and the jostling of pants rips your heart to shreds.

“you _agreed_ to this. and so, my beautiful girl, i’m going to break you into pieces and put them back together again. over, and over, and over.”

There’s no gentle easing.

With one surge, your whole life shatters.

It feels like he’s splitting you in half as he shreds through your hymen. He drives into you like a machine. Every movement is mechanical, following the directives of the one who holds all the control.

Out. Out. You want him _out_. But you can’t do anything without making the friction from his girth rubbing against your walls flare up like an inferno.

Sans thrives on how you thrash underneath him, trying to break free. You hear it in his thoughts.

The fight makes it hotter for him.

“aw, fuck, look at you squirm. like a goddamn princess.”

Indeed, this is your Cinderella moment. But not in the way you’d dreamed of it before all of this happened. This isn’t the part of the story where the prince fits the slipper on the girl and they run away to live happily ever after.

This is the part in the story where the clock strikes midnight. The beautiful ball gown turns back into rags. The spell is broken.

The two of you aren’t making love.

You’re fucking.

And it is _brutal._

“ _Stop_!” A borderline sob garbles your plea. You’re going lightheaded from the pain. “Please, it _hurt_ s!”

“that’s a good thing, precious,” Sans grits out in between thrusts. “means your body’s getting used to me. it brings us closer. increases the intimacy.”

That’s a sick joke. There’s no _intimacy_ in this. As he ruts inside of you, you don’t feel closer; if anything, you’ve never felt further away in your life. From him. From yourself.

“besides, how can you ask me to stop now? your cunt is taking me to goddamn _nirvana_.”

It’s like now that he’s inside you, he’s abandoned all of his restraint. Including in his words. He won’t _shut up_.

“fu-uh-ck! i knew you were designed for me. couldn’t be a more perfect fit.”

He’s trying to convince you this is how it’s supposed to be. But you see his praise for what it is. Filth to keep his dick hard as he drives it inside of you, then tears it out.

In and out. In and out.

He mutilates you.

You _loathe_ every minute. 

That doesn’t stop the sounds from coming back.

At one point, he hits a particularly sensitive spot. The sensation barrages you and draws out an embarrassingly loud moan. Sans thrives on it.

“that’s it, sweetheart. i know you’re enjoying this. there’s no need to be silent about it.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bones dart out of the room. Apparently the noises are too animalistic even for her.

Why does pop music make the sounds of sex seem so appealing? There’s no sensuality behind the pants and cries his primal thrusts draw out of you. No empowerment in the breathy gasps.

This doesn’t make you feel like a budding woman.

Your body doesn’t get the message.

As that tension starts reaching its breaking point, you close your eyes. Hoping that if you focus on the sensation of coming undone and not the actions leading up to it, you can find some hidden passion that can carry you through.

But then Sans yanks himself out.

You’re wrenched onto your back. With your bra unhooked, the straps slip from your shoulders, allowing your breasts to bounce free. Your shaky legs are grateful for the break, but this is no chance for relaxation. 

“no, no, no…”

There’s a loud crack as twenty-seven bones in a hand make contact with your face. Shame ignites as your cheek explodes with stinging heat. Your eyes fly open. Red swims in your vision.

“no going somewhere else. you stay with _me_.”

The missionary position allows Sans to go even deeper. He pushes until he hilts up against you. The thrust of his pelvis draws out yet another groan.

“i know you know who’s doing this to you. but i still haven’t heard you say it. i _need_ to hear you say it, my love...”

Whatever he wants, however he wants it. This is his show.

“Sans…”

His hands squeeze your breasts until they threaten to burst. “fuck, i’m so close…again!”

The longer this goes on for, the less it takes to get your toes to curl.

“Sans….”

His administrations grow rougher. “louder, sweetheart. **_louder_**!”

With all the churning energy in this room, if you scream, it could be carried up to the stars. Maybe unlock some cosmic connection between you and the universe.

“ _Sans_!”

And as you climax for the second time, Sans unleashes a roar, accompanied by a spew of hot fluid.

He stutters and jerks on top of you as his cock fills you up with its holdings. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. He didn’t even consider the possibility of a condom. So you just go lax and take it all.

There is no middle ground with Sans.

The highs take you to ecstasy.

The lows are agonizing misery.

When he _finally_ unsheathes himself and flops beside you with a more-than-satisfied groan, you’re terrified to move. While your breath is slowly returning, you still feel detached from yourself. Something inside seems to be permanently lost.

“god _damn_ that was a ride. the image of your face when you come undone is the stuff of dreams, sweetheart. i’ll be replaying that for weeks.”

After pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your head, Sans gets out of bed and leaves the room. When he returns, he’s holding a damp cloth. After dabbing the sweat from his face, he presses it against your aching entrance.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles as you wince at the touch. “i wanted to be gentle. but you made me wait for so long. All that pent up energy had to be released somehow.”

Of course this was all your fault. You don’t even protest it, too removed from the situation. 

When he repositions the cloth, it comes back splotched with crimson. The sheets are speckled with stains. The mix of blood and _him_ is the same shade as the bruises blossoming on your skin.

In between your thighs is a horrendous throbbing. Sans reaches over to gently massage the area. When he leans against your side, his groin presses against your hip. It hasn’t even been five minutes, and already, he’s got a new and sizable bulge.

“bet that boy couldn’t make you do that once, let alone twice in one session. his dick’s probably no bigger than a toothpick.”

Before, Sans had given no hints as to which of your memories he saw while you were experiencing his. This is the first clue. With one casual remark, things start falling into place.

“give me a minute to catch my breath, and then i’ll be ready for Round Two. you had a few bumps, but i’m sure we’ll be able to work those out this time.”

He isn’t aiming to satisfy. He’s just trying to prove he’s the better fuck.

Who is he trying to prove it to? You? Or himself?

He has you. Even if by some miracle you could get out of here, nobody is ever going to want to touch you. Not now that you’ve been so thoroughly defiled.

Why can’t that be enough for him?

Is he really still so jealous and self-conscious?

_“Pathetic **bastard**.”_

You’re too exhausted to say it aloud. But you direct all of your dying vehemence into making that thought as loud as it can go. Your glare burns from underneath the cover of your disheveled hair.

“sweetheart…”

His hand lifts to brush the strands away.

And you flinch.

Now that he’s mostly come down from the throes of his conquests, he expects you to do the same. He expects to feel your soul swell, reassuring him that the negativity was all a farce.

But you weren’t just role-playing. This hatred is genuine. This fear is real. You want him to be scorched by the feel of these real, serious emotions racing through your psychic connection.

_You’re ~~not~~ ready to die. _

Sans’ eye lights dim. His permanent grin drops.

_“i don’t understand…”_

Before his thought can even finish manifesting in your mind, he’s gone.

Sleep is calling. As your eyes droop, they fall to where his gaze last held, on your chest.

He’s left you like a broken, discarded doll that a child’s gotten tired of playing with. 

He swore he’d put you back together again. He broke his promise.

There’s two brand new cracks splintering your soul.

You don’t even care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Dirty talk, groping, dub-con oral sex that leads to rape (non-consensual vaginal sex from behind and missionary), violence, suicidal ideation.  
> If you feel I've missed anything, please let me know, and I'll add it in. 
> 
> If you wish to discuss this chapter, I'll be replying to comments. Thank you again.


	21. Imploded Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans tries to wrap his mind around what you're feeling and figure out what to do next...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who supported me and extended well wishes after last week's chapter. Warnings/Tags will be in the End Notes.  
> While Y/N's story is fictional, it is a sad fact that domestic violence and sexual assault are far too prevalent. I would never wish Y/N's situation on anybody, but if anybody reading this has dealt with anything similar, then from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry.  
> If you are looking for support or help, the National Domestic Violence Hotline and the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN) both have hotlines, as well as online chat services. They also have a number of resources and information at your disposal if you wish to learn more about these pressing issues and what you can do to help those who have experienced assault. Those of us who have not experienced it can can never properly imagine what it is to go through this. But if we are willing to make ourselves aware and educate ourselves, then hopefully we can be support and allies to those who have.  
> You are never alone, and I love you all. Shine bright, all you beautiful people. <3

Sans puffs the cigar he’d purchased into a stub in record time.

He’s starting to realize why humans pick up smoking as a habit. He still considers it disgusting, like all the other stupid methods humans have developed to ruin their lives. But if he’s the one causing the damage to himself, maybe it can override the anguish wrenching a hole in his soul.

The noxious smoke burns his lungs and stings his eye sockets. It numbs the pain by reducing his tension in the moment. But once the smog evaporates, leaving nothing but a stench that clings to his jacket and bones, it returns with a mighty vengeance.

He was supposed to have shared that with you after the long session of love-making.

_you **ruined** the moment. _

He’d thought your standoffish attitude had been your way of trying to play along. You’d teased him every second of the ceremony and the reception afterward, hiding your gorgeous body underneath that hideous pile of fabric Toriel called a dress. Practically begging with your actions to be unwrapped and played with like a Christmas present.

And then, when he’d brought you into the bedroom, your coy act had only intensified. Avoiding his gaze with those wide doe eyes of yours. Acting resistant to rile him up so he’d give it to you harder. Hate sex was supposed to be hot and intense. Not what he’d been expecting you to instigate for your first time, but if you wanted to roleplay, who was he to deny you that? Sans prided himself on being nothing if not a giver.

Even though you’d told him you were ready for him, in not so many words, Sans had held off. Saved the moment for after the ceremony, just like you’d originally wanted. But he’d made the experience worth your wait. He’d drawn out your inner Madonna. Hell, you’d climaxed twice, and if the two of you had kept going, without a doubt Sans could have increased that number by double. Maybe even triple.

After all of that, how _dare_ you wish for death?

If he had access to dog treats, they could probably subdue this nightmarish sensation entirely. But of course, because humans aren’t familiar with the magic infused inside and how it works, they’ve been deemed illegal.

Never mind the fact that they can do the job of a regular cigarette without all the nasty side effects humans are always so worried about. Never mind that they could hold an infinite amount of medical potential. The fact that the human government clings to is that this is unknown territory. Therefore, it _must_ be considered dangerous.

_typical human move; ban what they don’t understand..._

Hatred oozes over him, hardening over his soul like a thick coat of black tar. Humanity ruins everything. Humanity ruined _you_.

If you were another monster, he wouldn’t be dealing with any of these problems that came with being your soulmate. Sans prides himself on always thinking multiple steps ahead. Being prepared for anything. He’s never been caught off guard. But this situation?

_maybe i shouldn’t have completed the bond._

There is no point in considering that now. It’s too late; with it done, he can’t undo it even if he wanted to (which he doesn’t).

_maybe i made a mistake…_

No. He knows you’re his mate. There’s no way the connection he felt when he first laid eyes on you could be mistaken for anything else. There’s more to what he feels for you than just lust. Nothing else explains the swelling in his soul that consumes him when he pictures your future together. 

He just needs something. Anything to make this gutted feeling _go away_.

_~~maybe i should just kill her…~~ _

Fuck. You were going to be the death of him.

In Sans’ eyes, a little fear isn’t a bad thing. A wise man or monster holds a little trepidation close at all times. They never allow themselves to let their guard down entirely. It can ensure you don’t make bad decisions or get any big ideas. It can make the difference between life and death.

You have that survival instinct in you; Sans has known this ever since he started keeping a close eye on you. He observed your wary glances as you maneuvered the world around you, made careful notes to determine the best tactics to get past your carefully constructed shields ( _admittedly, yes, they had gotten a little…aggressive… at times, but they were all entirely necessary_ ). But based on that haunted look you’d tried to hide by closing your eyes when you’d winced away, Sans knows there’s more racing through you than just caution rearing its ugly head.

You aren’t just a little scared. You are _terrified_.

Not of yourself and your feelings…

Of _him_.

His soul violently contracts.

“ ** _fuck_**!”

He picks up a bear trap and hurls it at the wall opposite him. The clatter of the metal hitting the shed resonates in the empty space. When the jaws shut with a melodic snap, he picks up another one and repeats the action. This time, there’s enough force in his throw that the entire structure falls to pieces.

A low hum of charge builds in the air. Without even thinking, he hauls his favorite axe from its mount on the wall. His fingers mold around it so easily; the handle fits so perfectly in his grip.

It’s the only thing he brought with him from the underground other than the clothes on his back. A comfort item, much like a child’s teddy bear. Thinking of it in that context brings back one of your memories from during the ceremony, when your souls had first made contact…

***

_At six years old, you stand stiffly on a corner of the school blacktop. The playground rings with activity that you don’t know how to be a part of. All Mommy had done was brush a quick kiss on your cheek, and call out a brief, “Have a good first day, sweetie!” as she dashed off to head to work. Her cell phone was already glued to the side of her head by the time she reached the limo._

_The new school uniform is itchy. The bun your hair is tied into is too tight, giving you a headache. Your backpack weighs heavy on your shoulders. You’d wanted the black one with the paint splattered print from the store, but the shop owner had insisted this one, fluorescent pink with hearts, was what all the little girls were into nowadays. Daddy had brushed over your protest and thrown it into the shopping cart, saying this would help you fit in and make friends._

_But Daddy also told you that the tooth fairy is the one who puts the ten dollar bills under your pillow, when you know that it’s actually your nanny Maria. So maybe he’s not so smart._

_A girl with black hair split into two pigtail braids skips in your direction. “Hi! I’m Bentley! You’re the new kid, aren’t you?”_

_You nod once._

_“Everybody’s been talking about you; is it true you live in a palace?”_

_Your house is big enough that it could be a palace, so you shrug. “I guess…”_

_“Wow! So you’re like a princess! I’ve always wanted to be friends with a princess!”_

_A flutter of hope joins the butterflies in your tummy as Bentley’s eyes go wide. But then, as she looks at you, the wide-eyed look narrows._

_“I thought princesses were supposed to be pretty.”_

_The butterflies turn into wriggling maggots, and before you know what’s happening, your arms are extended forward, and Bentley is face-first in a mud puddle._

_She screams, and two supervisors comes running as though summoned by the ear-splitting shriek. One helps Bentley up and takes her to the nurse, even though the scrapes on her knees and elbows aren’t even bleeding. The other one drags you to the principal’s office._

_Now everyone is staring at you. You wish you’d stayed invisible._

***

All anyone around you had ever been interested in was your money and status. They’d hadn’t cared to pay attention to the person underneath. Even your so called ‘friends’ from the university, the ones who were only good for encouraging bad choices and making you think you needed booze and drugs to have fun. You hadn’t been entirely truthful about your past when you’d met them.

_if they had any idea where you came from…_

You think he’s just as harmful as all those stupid fucking humans in your life. Sans is _infinitely_ better than any of them. Even before performing the ceremony, he’d vowed to himself to be your confidante. Your protector. Your provider. He shouldn’t have to justify what he’s done to get this far. Every choice he’s made has revolved around you. Every action taken was done for your benefit.

_and **this** is how you repay me?!_

Before he can even think about it, he’s swinging the axe like a baseball bat. Tools fly off the benches in every direction. Glass and metal perform a tumultuous symphony as they shatter and clatter to the floor. Then, he hacks at the walls, every splinter that flies back and hits his face driving his attacks to be harder. More vicious. Spots flicker in his vision like someone turned a strobe light on in the room.

They’re images of you. They disappear as soon as the axe cuts through them, like it’s you receiving every blow.

_~~you’d kicked him; it would only be fair for you to get a few hits in return.~~ _

His jawbone throbs. Your kick hadn’t been much; he’s fought Froggits with more physical strength than you. Yet all his negative emotions amplify the feeling. He feels like he’s been hit with a hammer. 

The atmosphere grows thick with enchantment. Like static electricity, it clings to Sans’ bones, begging for release, and he grants it. His magic physically manifests in white orbs that hover above his open palms. As they rise higher, they twist and elongate. Features begin to develop. By the time they’re finished forming, with sunken reptilian eyes and spiked angular snouts, they resemble dragon skulls.

_he hasn’t been able to form these since before Undyne’s attack… ~~~~_

The low drone escalates to a roar as they open their maws, and the condensed magic explodes in rays around the room. The beams blast with reckless abandon, no set aim or direction to control them. Sans doesn’t care what they destroy. He just wants to watch this little contained portion of the world around him _burn_. 

It’s only when the smoldering remnants of the shed resemble part of the wreckage in a warzone that he finally lets up. He almost considers further reducing it to nothing but a pile of ash, but he’s starving. The sun is just starting to come up, and he hasn’t eaten since the ceremony reception. With all the power and energy he’s expended, he needs something to recharge.

Sans shortcuts into the kitchen and fumbles through preparing a meal of poached eggs and bacon. Even though he’s the one who designed this space, he’s spent so little time cooking in it that it takes him double the amount of time it would probably take you to cook it.

_it would probably taste better too…_

He does finally manage to complete his hearty breakfast, finishing by grabbing a bottle of ketchup from the fridge. Settling in at the table, Sans brings his knife and fork to the plate. Just before the prongs and jagged blade edge cut into the food, he freezes. 

_you’re probably hungry too…_

It’s with great reluctance that he travels down the hall and reenters the bedroom. The plate feels heavy in his hands as he hovers in the doorway.

“sweetheart? i made breakfast…”

You don’t respond.

As he gets closer, it becomes blaringly obvious you haven’t left the bed since last night. Your body is still naked. Only now, it’s burrowed under a nest of blankets. They subtly rise and fall as your breaths wheeze out of you. The raspy rattle in your phlegmy lungs can’t be mistaken as anything but a byproduct of crying.

Sans wants to climb next to you and offer comfort. He yearns to spend every moment, waking and sleeping with you close. But he can’t even stand a few feet away without being reminded that it’s his touch that hurts you.

He feels ~~powerless~~ insulted.

Huddled into a tiny ball and wrapped up tight, Sans can barely see you. Even with the way your head is turned, your hair curtains your visage. The only part of you that is readily visible is your left hand. It rests atop Bones, who sleeps nestled on the pillow your head rests upon.

You haven’t taken your ring off. That _must_ mean you haven’t given up entirely…

All relationships go through ups and downs. This is just a bump…

_right?_

Your fingers twitch, as though they sense his presence. Sans latches onto the movement.

“honey? are you asleep?”

You’re not; he knows you’re not. The colors in dreams are monochromatic, the sounds muffled compared to your musings while awake. He just wants to hear the sound of your voice pass through your lips.

But it seems you aren’t even interested in offering him your unconscious wanderings. He has to invade your mentality, steal them. While your weaker soul only allows you to enter Sans’ mind when he’s in close personal range, his dominancy allows him to enter yours no matter how much distance is between the two of you.

Delving into the corners of your psyche is effortless. Sans welcomes the transition into another familiar memory as he searches for some insight into your current state.

***

_“Care to explain why this is all over social media?”_

_Your face has been cropped onto the body of a nude model. Poorly. Your mother thrusts the crude editing job into your face. A speech bubble with the words ‘I join orgies for blow!’ gets harder to focus on the closer her phone gets._

_You shove it away and avert your eyes. “It’s no big deal. Just some asshole’s idea of a joke.”_

_You should never have gone to that stupid party. Everything about it had been a mistake. The three beers you’d consumed for liquid courage. The joint you’d nearly coughed up a lung trying to smoke in desperation to relax and be deemed ‘cool’. Blindly accepting when Trent, the host and most popular boy in school, asked you to follow him upstairs. Believing as he slid his hands under your shirt and kissed you, maybe something positive was finally coming your way._

_Thankfully, your brain hadn’t been so warped that you’d been convinced to go along when he tried to push you to your knees. He’d wanted you to service him, as well as his three buddies who were hiding in wait in his bedroom with the cameras out on their phones. Instead, you’d thrown a sweaty sock in his face and told them all, in the most colorful, intoxication-fueled language, what to do with it before tearing out of the house._

_It took less than twenty fours for that privileged fuck to retaliate. In the span of one weekend, it had spread through most of the school and made its way to you. More than once. Your phone receives hurtful messages faster than you can delete them._

_You could burst into flames under your mother’s glare. “It’s bad enough that this even exists. But the fact that I had to find out about it through someone I work with? Did you even think for a second about what this will do for this family’s reputation?”_

_You should have known that would be her primary concern. Humiliation ignites your cheeks. You try to pass it off as disdain. “Mom, it’s just a stupid rumor! It’s not true!”_

_But she just brushes you away. “I don’t want to hear it. Just go to your room. I have calls to make.”_

_There’s no point in arguing; it’s clear she doesn’t care about your side of the story. As you lie on your bed staring up at the ceiling, her voice travels up through the floor._

_“Charles? This is an absolute nightmare! Have you heard from our attorney yet?...What do you mean ‘freedom of speech’? This is clearly defamation! It’ll completely destroy any chance she has of getting accepted into law school!”_

_You wonder if it would ease her panic at all to find out that you haven’t applied to any law schools…_

_“ The media’s going to have a field day with this…I should have known she was up to no good when she came stumbling home stinking of booze and drugs…”_

_Desperate to tune her out, you run to your ensuite. Even your haggard reflection in the mirror looks at you with disgust._

_That was the night metal got hooked on the taste of your skin._

***

You reek of that same hopelessness now. It taints your beauty; for the first time, Sans looks upon you and considers you ugly. It only lasts the briefest of moments, but it happens.

_~~anything wonderful in my life gets wrecked by my touch…~~ _

He had saved you. You owed him _everything._

You’re just like all the other humans…you thought Sans was like everyone else you’ve ever known. You thought he was _bad_.

_i ought to take that damn cat and make you watch as i annihilate it…._

But he _can’t_. And he doesn’t know why.

“you know what?” He hurls the plate of food on the floor and stomps on it until it’s nothing but mush. “see how well you do on your own, you ungrateful _bitch_.”

You don’t even lift your head as Sans turns and shortcuts away.

Days later (He doesn’t know how many; lack of sleep has destroyed his sense of time), Sans sits at the bar in _Grillby’s_ , regretting his decision. In giving you space, he’s learned something: When you’re bored, your mind tends to wander. And he hates the images dancing in your head.

He wants to go back to you. Make them go away. But he can’t figure out what needs to be done to make that happen.

So for now, he drowns them out with ketchup.

He never should have drugged you. All he’d been trying to do was get you to open up. But instead, all it had done was force you to act. To not be yourself.

Just like everyone else in your life…

_~~i messed up. i messed up so badly…~~ _

He goes to lift his bottle to his teeth, but with the amount he’s already consumed, his coordination is shit. Sticky red condiment slops down the front of his shirt, and he emits an irritated growl.

“hey Grillbz…” he slurs. “mind getting another bottle for your ol’ pal?”

The fire monster pauses wiping the glass in his hands. His flames pop and crackle with hesitation.

“Sans…I am afraid I am going to have to cut you off…”

“whaddya mean?” Sans’ jaw drops. “is this about my tab? Grillbz, i swear, i’ll pay it eventually…”

Grillby shakes his head. “No, it is not that. When you first came in, I knew you were suffering, so I did not mind letting you crash on the cot in the back room. But you have been here for almost two weeks now, Sans. As your friend, I must say this. You cannot stay here hiding from your problems forever.”

Before Sans can protest, he turns and begins assisting another customer. Sans slumps on the counter, fingers grating over his pounding skull as he tries to figure out what to do.

He can’t call Papyrus; his sibling didn’t deserve to be weighed down by his troubles. There’s no way in hell he’s going to ask Toriel for help. She’d insist on butting in and using her ‘motherly instincts’ to fix things, when this is something that he needs to do on his own.

_i’m so utterly fucked…this **can't** be how it ends..._

“Hi Grillby. Can I get my usual order please?”

Sans’ bones go rigid.

He knows that voice. He almost knows it better than the sound of your voice, only because it’s the second most prevalent component of all your memories, the moments that haunt him every time he tries to close his eyes.

***

_Sitting in that office, waiting for the principal to call your name, the only way to keep yourself entertained was to doodle on your arms. When the secretary’s intercom squeals, it startles you, and you drop your pen._

_As you bend to reach for it, another little hand picks it up and hands it to you._

_“Hi. You’re a really good draw-er…”_

_Your parents would correct them, say the proper word is, ‘artist.’ But you just smile and shyly offer to sketch a happy face on their palm._

_\---_

_Your parents didn’t even notice when you started wearing exclusively long sleeves and pants. Not even in the summer. Nobody did._

_Well, almost nobody._

_“Maybe you should talk to a counsellor.”_

_You snort and tear your arm free, wrestling your sleeve back down, even though you haven’t had a chance to change the bandage. The seepage had left a miniscule blot on your sleeve, yet somehow, they’d caught it._

_“And give my parents another reason to be embarrassed of me? No thank you.”_

_“(Y/N), this is really dangerous. Promise me you won’t do this anymore.”_

_You do, just to stop the conversation. The person you’re talking to knows you’re lying. They hug you anyway._

\---

_“Are you sure this is a good idea?”_

_You continue stuffing your belongings into bins. “I don’t need my parent’s stupid trust fund. I’ll get my Fine Arts degree, get noticed by an art buyer, and then, when I’m successful enough, I’ll open my own studio.” You narrow your eyes. “Don’t you think I’m talented enough?”_

_“Of course I do! It’s just…well, this school’s located on the other side of the country. When your parents find out you lied about where you’re going, they won’t be able to find you.”_

_“That’s the idea.” You sound confident, but in truth, you’re terrified. This is the ultimate rebellion. Bigger than dying your hair. Bigger than slipping into a back alley shop to get your belly button pierced._

_“It’ll be a big change. Aren't you nervous about doing all of this on your own?”_

_“Well, I won’t be entirely alone. You’re going there too.” That was part of the reason you’d even applied for this program in the first place. “You’ve got my back, right?”_

_Their instantaneous response makes your heart flutter with nerves for an entirely new reason._

_“Always.”_

***

“don’t see too many humans here.”

The blond hair and dimple in the right cheek confirm that Sans is not hallucinating.

Andrew smiles next to him and gestures to where Grillby is working behind the counter. “He makes the best burgers. If people aren’t willing to give this place a chance just because he’s a monster, then honestly? I think they’re the ones missing out, not him.”

Sans grunts. He sees right through his green soul and holier-than-thou bullshit.

_he’s no better than any other human._

As he moves to face forward again, Andrew leans closer. “I know you, don’t I? Yeah…” He taps his chin. Before Sans can even take a breath, he snaps his fingers in remembrance. “You were in my Physics 300 class last semester! Quantum Mechanics?”

Sans doesn’t respond, but Andrew takes that as confirmation, and a sign to keep talking.

“How have you been man? I haven’t seen you around campus in a while. Well…” his face drops. “Maybe I just didn’t notice. I’ve been having a hard time concentrating lately. Honestly, I’ve been thinking I might have to take a leave of absence for a semester…My best friend committed suicide.”

It sickens Sans how well this son of a bitch can pretend to care about you.

His face pales, and his words grow choked. “I knew she had problems, but I never thought she’d—” He stops and clears his throat. “Sorry. That’s probably too much information, right?”

Sans doesn’t object. Despite his contempt, he has a need to hear where this is going.

“The police had to question me because she mentioned me in her letter. She said I broke her heart.” Andrew shakes his head. “I told her we could still be friends, but then I distanced myself from her, like a coward. It’s my biggest regret.”

Sans bunches his hands into fists as a twinge stabs his soul. He swore that he wouldn’t hurt or kill anyone from your past. But the contract made no mention of complications to your soul if someone else got involved. Before they’d left after the ceremony reception, Sans had asked Toriel and Papyrus to keep a close eye on your old friends. All it would take was one phone call after he left the bar…

_you’d never have to know…_

No.

Sans couldn’t do that.

He would eventually have to go back to you. If for just a _second_ , his mind slipped and you got an image of what had happened…

It would ruin you.

Taking a breath, he forces his hands to relax. “that’s tough, bud.”

Andrew sniffs. “She was an amazing person. When she was happy, she shone. I just wish I could tell her I’m sorry for letting her down.”

_keep wishing buddy. you hurt her. you don’t deserve another shot._

_~~you hurt her too…~~ _

Sans turns his attention partly to the television mounted on the wall in front of him. The newscasters are talking about some upcoming political debate.

Andrew looks up as well and grimaces.

“The one thing I’m grateful for is that _(y/n)_ is in a better place and doesn’t have to deal with this shit. She’d hate what’s going on right now. I think she was happiest when she was getting justice for other people. Truthfully, I think she cared about others more than she did herself. I admired it, but it made me…”

Staring ahead, Sans zones out as an idea on how to reenter your good graces begins to form in his mind. When he snaps out of it, he just misses the newscaster announcing the late addition of a new candidate.

“It was always too easy for people to try to walk all over—”

“wait, wait!” Sans interrupts Andrew and jerks a finger at the television screen. “what did they just say? what was that last name?”

Suddenly sober, he listens extra carefully as Andrew repeats it to ensure that he wasn’t mishearing things.

He wasn’t.

A wicked smile curves his teeth. He knows exactly what he needs to do.

_oh, this is gonna be good._

For once, this idiot is right about something. You are in a better place. 

“maybe that pretty yellow soul is exactly where she needs to be…”

Andrew’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

Before he can ask for clarification, Sans blinks away.

He has some shopping to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for everything. Y'all are amazing, and I can't wait to read your comments for this chapter.
> 
> Warnings/Tags: Smoking, drinking, mentions of rape, bullying, attempted sexual assault, mentions of self-harm, mentions of considering violence, implied suicidal ideation and mentions of suicide.  
> Please let me know if I've missed anything!


	22. Searching For Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N just wants the conflict to end. The swirling restlessness to cease. It's getting hard to tell whether she's fighting Sans...or herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Y/N is in a very dark place, especially at the start of this chapter. Detailed warnings and tags are in the End Notes as always, so please proceed with caution and feel free to check them beforehand if you're concerned about triggers.

So this is how it ends.

The food on the ground ran out long ago, and you lack the strength to get up and search for more. You don’t even have enough willpower to pull yourself back into bed. Barely propped against the bed frame, the mattress is tall enough to hide you in shadow.

Another wave of despair crashes over you, pushing you further into the depths. If your soul radiated in a different part of the color spectrum, would you still be sinking? What would Amy or Jessie do? It’s a useless debate; they’re both too smart to get caught up in a mess like this. But oh, what you wouldn’t give to see them burst through that doorway…

Your head lolls, directing your gaze at the empty entrance.

_Someone… **Anyone** …._

You haven’t seen Sans since he stormed out days ago, and honestly, you don’t expect him to come back. The ceremony gained you a peek into his experiences mentally. Now it seems he wants you to live out his sufferings physically as well.

Suffering used to mean deadlines, unachievable expectations, and fear of disappointment. You’re not that naïve anymore.

_Still stupid though…_

It seems an especially cruel punishment, being left to starve. Your hunger panes have finally gone away; a sign that your body is finally coming to grips with what your mind accepted long ago. You’re relieved they’re getting on the same page. When the cramping in your stomach had been at its most severe, you’d nearly been blinded by the agony.

_You’d almost considered eating the cat._

The risk of that has passed, but you’re still disgusted in yourself for allowing the thought to manifest in the first place. The longer you stay trapped here, the more you wither away. And as the pieces of your individual disappear into the irretrievable blackness, they are replaced with those of a beast. Revealing what must be Sans’ true master plan.

Sans is turning you into a monster.

A dark, unbearable transformation. Stalled for now, but anything could be a trigger. You can’t risk the chance of escalation. If it reaches completion, you’ll never be able to forgive yourself.

You have to stop it. Permanently.

Something pokes out from under the bedframe. Long and slender with three dull prongs. The fork must have slid under the bed when San threw the plate down.

You reach over, and it’s just close enough for the tips of your fingers to nudge it nearer. After several failed attempts, you finally grab it properly. Admiring the feel of the clear plastic against your clammy skin, you slowly maneuver it in your grip. One, two, three complete turns before you clench it like a hand that’s been extended out towards you, knuckles whitening to a ghost-like magnitude.

Just when you thought you had no options. Maybe the wood knots in the walls are the eyes of some merciful God who’s kept hidden until this moment. Watching as you accept the gracious answer to your prayers. Or maybe it’s the devil, looking to gain a new apprentice. Willing to offer a soft spot to land when you finally let go of this jagged ledge and hit the bottom…There’s no true chance of reaching heaven with the unpayable debt of your sins on your back.

_Whoever’s out there, just add this to my list…_

There’s no hesitation as the prongs are angled towards the side of your neck. The possibility of peace buries all of that heavy uncertainty.

It will take more pressure to break through the skin. Just like using a dull blade, it’ll definitely sting once it’s embedded. But at least this will speed things up.

You don’t know how many tries it will take. But you don’t fear the lurking unknown anymore. In fact, you surrender to it.

You just want the fight to be over.

_"(Y/N)!”_

The exclamation is followed by a rush of magic that slams into your arm. Seized, it lurches up, and your grip comes undone unwillingly. The fork rockets toward an opposite wall. When it hits, it buries itself so deep, you can’t even see the handle.

Your heart plummets.

_You should have acted quicker…_

Sans races forward and bends in front of you. The light from his socket flares in panic, bathing you in the wrong shade of red.

“are you _insane_?!” After checking your neck, he seizes your arms and yanks you forward, twisting them as much as they’ll go without breaking so he can inspect every inch. When he spots no blood or noticeable injury, his appalled expression turns to your face. “can’t i leave you alone for five _fucking_ minutes? this isn’t a game, you _stupid_ girl! what the _fuck_ were you thinking?!”

He should know exactly what you’re thinking. He’s always in your mind after all. The feel of him listening is like being infiltrated by an infectious disease. But that isn’t the issue. Like so many other actions you’ve taken, you’d planned on jumping right in without evaluating the consequences. There had been absolutely no consideration for what pandemonium could ensue.

_Guess some things will never change._

If you had the energy, you’d laugh. But you don’t, so you just sit there. Staring at him with the dullest expression you can muster.

Challenging him.

_“Go on. What are you going to do? I was bad. Go ahead, do your worst. Punish me. Kill me.”_

“stop it!” The panic in his tone borders on hysterics. His hands move to your shoulders and shake you so hard, you risk whiplash. “snap out of it! you don’t mean that. you _don’t_. this isn’t you!”

_“He doesn’t know you at all. How can he, when you barely know yourself?”_

He pulls back like you’ve slapped him. “how can you say that? i am your _soulmate_!”

_“What does that word mean anymore?”_

He looks like he’s barely restraining himself. Magic pulsing in time with his heavy breaths, he scours you from top to bottom. Your soul unabashedly pulses under his penetrative gaze, daring him to linger on the cracks. Not even his almighty magic can seal those up.

At one point, while his sockets are angled downward, they squint, as though they’ve locked on a potential clue to your behavior. You follow his stare, but all you see is barely jutting out ribs, and slightly jaundiced skin. But then he gives his head a shake, and his eyes returns to normal. His face twists in concentration.

“i’ll prove i know you.”

The sound of plastic bags assaults your ears, and then a pile of hard covered books are dumped next to you.

You noticed very early on that he is careful about what literature he allows in this cabin. Mostly classics, and no female protagonists. Nothing where a woman thinks she knows better than the men. No Little Woman. No Pride and Prejudice. But here, you see another pattern emerging. These are all children’s picture books.

He must not want you getting ideas. He needn’t worry though. The kinds of thoughts plaguing your head come even without reading The Bell Jar or the end of Romeo and Juliet.

“ _How sweet…It’s almost like he cares…”_

Reading used to be an escape for you. You could spend hours engrossed in other worlds. But your eyes tire much quicker now than they used to. And as soon as that starts to happen, the curtain falls and thrusts you back into your cold, unforgiving reality. Here, the illusion has been shattered too many times. It hurts to be reminded that you’re stuck, never really going anywhere. So now the words stay just that. Words.

Attempting to pass your exhaustion off as boredom, you turn your gaze downward again. But you never let Sans go entirely out of sight. In your peripheral, you observe him aggressively clasp the hole in his head. After giving a couple sharp tugs, a rectangular box is set in your lap. When you don’t move to touch it, he pulls the decorative bow and lifts the lid. It reveals four rows of brightly colored pastries, the middles loaded with moist fillings.

Macarons.

“i saw a building shaped like a capital A in some of your thoughts. the lady at the store told me these come from where that is.”

They certainly _smell_ like regular cookies. The amalgamation of flavors seems a hundred times stronger to your starved nose. They draw you in, your taste-buds aching for a potential taste of granulated sugar heaven.

The image of those magic filled truffles fills your mind. Maybe he’s infused these as well? The possibility should be a deterrent. Instead, it only further encourages you to reach for the bait of a blueberry treat. 

_“If you can’t be dead, then you may as well be medicated enough to make you feel not present.”_

“we’re not going to do that anymore, sweetheart. it wasn’t good for you.”

Shock dries your mouth. There are a lot of things he’s done that weren’t _‘good for you.’_ Is he seriously going to cut out the one that you could handle most?

Your blood boils, and in a triggered act of defiance, you shove the box of deception off your lap. Though it doesn’t have far to fall, there’s enough momentum behind the motion that when it topples, it lands top first.

As the treats spill out, littering crumbs of cooked meringue, Sans tenses. You brace for the punishment of wasting. You pray it’s brutal.

But instead, he just blows a long breath out through his nares. “you won’t leave me,” he decisively murmurs, more to himself than to you. Despite his fruitless efforts, it seems he’s not ready to give up yet. “you spoke vows. you gave me your _word_. to break that would go against everything you believe in.”

He’s right. Without being able to hear the constant whisper of the echo flowers, you’d nearly forgotten your promises. Disgust fills you as you realize how close you came to recklessly abandoning your morals and ethics.

“let’s get you a bit of sunshine. that’ll bring your appetite back.”

Your body is a lead weight as he pulls you to your feet. Guided to the living room, your jelly legs lurch side to side until he sets you down at the piano bench. Moving to massage your thighs--after all this time, they’re still aching-- you spare a glance up, ready to see a smug look focused your way. Expecting Sans to relish in his conquests.

But even without skin, his face looks pinched. It’s not a positive expression, but not as harsh as the rage you’ve grown accustomed to.

Aside from the lack of flesh, he really doesn’t look that different from a human…If his body is so similar to yours, maybe there’s a chance he’s not the ferocious prick you originally made him out to be. His experiences have just instilled in him a need to express only the most intense of angers. Survival doesn’t allow for subtle expression. Grit overpowers softness.

“i love you, sweetheart. you know that, don’t you? why are you so desperate to hurt me?”

His voice has grown significantly quieter. You don’t answer.

Rather than touch you, he reaches for the book of sheet music sitting against the music stand. Flipping through, he stops on a composition that could be played as a duet. After playing a few low notes, he has to lift your hand and place it on the keys. But as soon as he lets go, your arm goes slack.

Sans heaves a tired sigh at your reluctance to cooperate. “you want to judge me? fine. judge me. but knowing each other is a two-way street, and you have no idea what i’ve had to deal with. those little glimpses into my mind you get amount to _nothing_ compared to the centuries of hell i had to endure. what happened to me wasn’t fair.”

At the choice of words, your soul twists.

“i guess i messed up bad. i know you hate me right now. but i’m begging for another chance.”

You don’t look up from the piano keys, trying to wrap your head around what’s happening. He’s still interested in you? Is this real life? Or has your mind finally cracked, trapping you in a dream inspired by what you used to wish he’d say?

“let’s go somewhere. take a real honeymoon. start over.”

The crescent shaped creases that form in your palms confirm you are indeed awake.

How can you be angry at him, when in desperation, you’d nearly been driven to commit your own despicable act? If anybody else in your life was part of this encounter, they’d abandon you in a heartbeat. But he’s willing to stay. He wants to know you.

Are you really going to destroy the only possible chance of a relationship you’ll ever have? Raised the way you had been, you should have known you were never destined for regular.

Sans presses on. “you aren’t allowed to fall down. i can’t live without you. i don’t _want_ to live without you. you’re everything to me. you make me better.”

Now your mind is so _quiet_.

Nothing makes sense. You don’t understand. _You’re helping him?_

“please, sweetheart, say something. _talk_ to me.”

What’s to say? You wouldn’t even know where to start.

His next words are hesitant. Slow, because he knows even wounded animals can strike. “so i guess you aren’t interested in this either…”

Slowly, he pulls out a brand new sketchpad. You try to act nonchalant, but fail. You can practically smell the high quality of the fibers that make up the paper inside. Your fingers yearn to hold the equipment, or even just touch it for a second. For a moment, you slip, and your eyes widen. Sans notices.

“i bought some oil paints and canvases too, but i’m going to hold onto those,” he warns. “paintbrushes and chemicals are too risky. from what i just witnessed, you can’t be trusted with more than crayons right now. you should know better, sweetheart. i’m disappointed.”

It would be so easy to have another tantrum. You could pound on the piano and draw out a cacophony. Shred the sheet music to confetti. Accuse him of being a tyrant. Unleash screams until the taste of blood you’ve grown so accustomed to becomes a permanent fixture in the back of your throat.

But there is no true fury swimming through you anymore.

“I’m sorry. I gave you mixed messages. I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

You can’t bear being next to him right now. You move to stand, but your muscles enter a state of cataplexy. Sans catches you as you begin to collapse, and eases you to the floor.

“i know, sweetheart. i know you didn’t mean to do it…” Positioning you in his lap, he rocks you back and forth like a child. “you’re such a good girl. my most precious treasure.”

Despite the gentleness, he’s still too strong to break free from. There’s no point in resisting. You wish his grip was tight enough to strangle. You ache for the feel of his digits gouging your skin. It would be easier to hate him if he was hurting you.

Instead, you hate yourself. 

Sans is trying to mold you, not into a monster, but into something better. And while your brain tries to trick you into believing you’ve achieved full acceptance, some unidentifiable part deep down refuses to be soothed. Rather than being wholly excited, it stubbornly fights against the growth, preferring to drown in mourning, rather than rise in rebirth.

Every time. Why? It’s not like any part of your past is worth grieving about…

Torn apart by cruel retaliation and sweet surrender, sobs too powerful to provide any sound wrack you. There’s only one reliable constant in these battles, and this time is no exception. It’s the being whose arms hold you together, cooing sweet reassurances that he’ll never let go. 

***

After you finally settle down, Sans cleans your face and lounges beside you on the couch. The bag of bar food he brought back for you sits on the coffee table. He insists you eat it slowly to reduce the risk of refeeding syndrome. The smell of grease is overpowering, so you can only pick at it bit by bit anyway.

Even if you were hungrier or more concerned about rejuvenation, you’d still ignore it. Fully engrossed in the scratch of the paper against skin, your hand glides across a blank page growing full. The dull end of the crayon prevents sharp, finite detail and shading, but that doesn’t bother you. The bluntness and vast color contrasts in every stroke seem appropriate for the conjured images.

As you pause to consider the final touches, the arm around your shoulder squeezes, momentarily breaking your spell. “it’s your turn, darling.”

While pouring over illustrations is hugely therapeutic, the two of you have also been casually throwing questions back and forth to keep you calm. All the basic ‘favorite’ questions, where the answers can be fired off without thinking, have been covered. You know his favorite food (ketchup, obviously). His favorite pastime is napping. The logical next step would be to delve into more personal matters. But where to begin? The most innocent of inquiries could set him off.

You tap the black wax crayon against your chin. Something in the back of your mind that you’ve been wondering about for a while attempts to resurface, but you forbid it from breaching. Abandoning your current work, you flip the page. Starting clear to let new ideas bloom.

This is the most normal you’ve felt in a very long time.

You can’t risk treading into territory he deems unacceptable.

“I…I don’t want to play anymore…”

Sans leans over and settles his teeth against your ear. You nearly snap the piece of wax in half. It’s impossible to focus on anything but the power brewing in his bones.

“come on sweetheart, spit it out. if you don’t, i’ll just dive into your pretty little mind. there shouldn’t be any secrets between us.”

Paralyzed with anxiety, you force past the lump in your throat.

“I guess…I was wondering…can you tell me about the Underground?”

Everything stills, and you rush to break the pregnant pause. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to! I just thought…well, you might have some memories from before it became a shithole…I’ll think of another question!” Why should you expect him to drudge up his past when he’s worked so hard to prevent you from doing the exact same thing?

“easy sweetheart, deep breaths.” Sans removes his feet from off the table and pushes you back so you’re no longer hunched forward. After glancing at the ring on his hand and considering, he taps his head. “the happy memories are buried pretty deep in the murk, and this ugly thing doesn’t help with recall. but they’re in there, somewhere.”

You pipe up again. “Papyrus told me you used to be a scientist…”

He chuckles, and a smile spreads his teeth. “yeah, in the Core. out of all the jobs i ever worked down there, it was the one i was most proud of. i was part of the two person team who came up with the idea to convert geothermal energy into magical electricity, and figured out the process to do it.”

“Who was the second person?”

Just as quickly as it arrived, his smile disappears. “it doesn’t matter. he died before the barrier came down. nobody else remembers him.”

“I’m sorry…”

He continues speaking as though he didn’t hear you. “after he passed, i started some real ground-breaking magical developments with magic. but of course, right in the middle of it, resources started running out. everything had to be shut down. when i emerged on the surface, i had dreams of starting over, but despite my academic achievements, nobody wanted to hire a monster. i barely got accepted to that school of yours. _‘demonstration of equality’_ , my ass. the administration just wanted to promote their own positive image.”

His mood is dropping, turning sour. You try to bring him back to the positive, keep him level-headed. “What else do you remember?”

Sans begrudgingly tugs a loose thread on his jacket. “a lot of comradery. i miss it.”

“Maybe one day things will be like that again.”

He snorts. “not likely. no matter where we go, none of us can escape it. not even me.” 

This isn’t going well. “How far can you travel with your teleportation?”

He shrugs. “it was always effortless to get from one end of the underground to the next. up here, i can go further, but there’s limits to where monsters can visit, so i can’t be sure of the full extent.”

You look up at him. “What do you mean, limits?”

“we can cross borders to enter the different provinces in the country. but we still aren’t allowed to apply for passports to leave the country.”

“What?” Suddenly, another question, one that Toriel had encouraged you to bring up what feels like ages ago, springs to mind. “Isn’t that a violation of your monster rights?”

“the laws are so against us, it’s like our rights don’t exist. job hunting, we have to settle for whatever minimum wage gigs will take us, and a lotta times, we’re fired before we even finish the training because of complaints. if we start our own businesses or apply for housing, we have to settle for lots that should have been torn down decades ago. most of our money ends up paying for vandalism, so eventually, we get evicted because we don’t have enough left over to pay the extortionate leases. then we end up on the streets, because even though we have gold in our bank accounts, it gets taxed more than double the usual amount. sooner or later, we wind up sick, and it’s only a matter of time before we dust, because so few medical places are open to treating us. and even if we do get lucky and find one that’ll take us, we can’t afford the costs, because we aren’t allowed to buy insurance. not for our possessions, and especially not for our bodies. as long as we aren’t allowed to become fully fledged citizens, every monster is still basically imprisoned by humans.”

After his long rant, Sans is so run down that he slumps against the sofa, utterly deflated. Your mouth is agape as you try to digest everything he’s thrown at you.

The monsters still aren’t freed from the burden of captivity. What a ghastly thing to endure. You can hardly imagine the pressure Sans must be dealing with. The constant reminders that monsters will never be tolerated as they are. You’d had no idea the prevalence of xenophobia was so bad.

That must be why he brought you here. If he’d tried to date you surrounded by the bigotry of today’s society, the two of you would have been under constant scrutiny and potential attack. Nobody would have understood. He wasn’t trying to lock you up and subject you to the same nightmare he feels he’ll never escape from. He wanted to ensure he could provide for you properly. He wanted to feel free to love.

The pressure of issues like this is enough to harden your soul to yellow diamond.

Something _must_ be done.

“where’d you see those symbols, sweetheart?”

You give him a look of confusion, and he gestures to your paper. When you look down, it is no longer blank. You hadn’t even realized your hand had started sketching again.

“that’s an archaic monster language. before the war, it was the primary form of dialect for skeleton monsters. so few survived that it became forgotten. not even Papyrus knows how to speak it. the only reason i know it is my lab partner taught me to read and write it while we were working together. he didn’t want anyone stealing our research.”

Is that who you’ve been hearing in your head? That mysterious voice has gone surprisingly silent as suddenly as it first appeared. It seems ever since the ceremony, he doesn’t feel a need to stick around you anymore. But some part of you must have thought what he had to say was important enough to store away in a corner of your mind.

Before the memory of his voice can echo, you fill your thoughts with the image of Sans’ office. For some reason, the way he’s been dodging talking about him makes you suspect there’s more to this past relationship than just them being ‘lab partners.’ While you’re curious, his hostility toward the subject hints it’s not a good idea for him to know you’re familiar with this stranger.

“I…I saw them in one of your books. I guess I thought they were pretty. Do they mean something?”

Sans traces the symbols with a claw. “this says, ‘who are you?’ and ‘who do you fight for?’. interesting how appropriate that is for what we were just talking about…”

Such simple questions. You don’t understand why you spent so long wondering about the correct answers.

At least in this scenario, you know the right ones for the occasion. You shyly slide your free hand under his, fingers lacing together. “It’s like you said earlier; I’m your soulmate. So I guess that means I fight for you.”

He stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “you really care about helping others, don’t you?”

You nod. The flutter in your stomach intensifies. “If there was anything I could do to help you and the other monsters, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.” Standing quickly, he pulls for you to follow. “come with me.”

In the bedroom, he digs for clothes to don your naked body. Nothing seems to please him until he comes up with the most concealing outfit he’s ever allowed you to wear. Complete with a long winter coat and pair of jeans. The denim is snug against your bloated waist, and it takes a bit of wriggling, but you finally manage to coax the zipper tab up and slip the button through its hole.

Sans opens the treasure chest. An unfamiliar shopping bag sits inside, and he takes it out and throws it in your direction. “put these on too. come on sweetheart, we don’t have all day.”

Inside is a long brunette wig, a set of colored contact lenses, and a pair of thick black sunglasses.

Where did all of this come from, and why is he so insistent you need it? You fumble with the items. Are you going somewhere? This feels bigger than travelling for a honeymoon. You can’t tell if the blurriness in your vision is from excitement or the contacts.

Sans gives you a look-over once you’re finished and nods in satisfaction. “get over here and hold on tight.”

Obeying, you rush to him and clench the front of his jacket as tightly as you can. The teeth of the zipper dig into your palms. The room spins around you, and as you inhale a stabilizing breath, you’re whisked into the void.

Hoping whatever he has planned, it’ll take you one step closer to extinguishing that tenacious flame preventing you from finding peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Depression, suicide attempt, psychological/emotional abuse, talk of racism
> 
> Thank you to all who give this story a chance! All of your kudos, bookmarks, reading, or even if you just open this story up and try the first chapter, it's all appreciated. If you'd like, leave a comment, and I'll respond to it! :)


	23. Crushed Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans takes Y/N out of the house. But it turns out this is more than just a simple vacation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> I know this is a scary time for the world right now. For myself personally, the stress of getting the notification that I won't be working really threw me out of my creative state at the start of this week.   
> I hope this story can be a welcome distraction if you need it, and that everyone is staying safe and healthy. <3   
> Feel free to drop a comment if you feel inclined; let's stick together and spread some positive energy in our shared love of Horrortale!
> 
> Warnings and Tags will be in the End Notes.   
> I hope you enjoy!

You should be used to the weightlessness that takes over when you’re transported by Sans. Blink your eyes once, and by the time they’re open to the universe again, the trip is over. No longer floating, in an entirely new location, dealing with minimal side effects.

But this time, the journey through nothingness feels longer. Like someone put glue on your eyelids to drag out the experience. The harder you try to break them apart, the more they stick. Trapping you in the in-between of an impossibly high altitude, and the deepest of freezing depths.

When you finally drop, the first thing you’re greeted with is wet sulphur. Its pungency roils the churning in your stomach even harder.

“Oh my god…” You drink it up like it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

Gone is the scent of stale, recirculated air of an enclosed space and pine wood. This is fresh and new, constantly fluctuating with the winds. Your lips stretch until the sides of your mouth threaten to split, but no breath feels full enough.

No doubt you look a fool, but it feels like there’s no time to waste in composing yourself. You laugh until you start to gag and heave, but don’t dare try to stop. All you want is to make this atmosphere a permanent part of you. For every atom in your body to carry a piece of the freedom inside every stolen gulp.

In all the commotion, the black sunglasses slip down your nose. Without the constant barrier of glass to shield from the direct glare, sunshine hits like a punch. You spin, allowing it to come at you from all angles. The contacts you’d put underneath do nothing to protect your corneas. Every inch of exposed skin on your face vibrates under the rays.

Adjusting and refocusing leaves you momentarily blinded. You try your hardest not to squint, needing to take all of this in full force. You do eventually have to ensure the vertigo won’t pull you under, and in the brief moments your eyes are closed, the light spots linger under your lids. The tint from your altered irises cannot reduce the vibrancy around you. The color dotting your vision is the most glorious display you’ve ever experienced. Even with your years of artistic experience, you couldn’t capture this whirling beauty on a canvas.

You can’t remember the last time you visited the ocean. Once recharged, you yank the glasses entirely free from your face. Stretching your hand back, you’re fully ready to pitch them into oblivion, charge forward, dive into the waves, and let them carry you away.

But something catches your arm before you can even attempt to unleash this wild energy.

“ _(Y/N)._ look at me. look at me.”

Your body is jerked, and looming shadows steal away the color. Its cover over you is heavy. It takes a great deal of strength to lift your eyes to meet Sans’ sockets. His crimson gaze burns like a firestorm through your skin, and you’re temporarily smothered by the smoke. The laughter dies in your throat.

“i need to know you can handle this. if you can’t, i’m going to take you straight back home.”

Your soul rebels at the idea of being back in that cabin. Despite its thundering pace, you lower your trembling arms to your sides. Muscles and tendons beg for release as you force them to lock up. But even your stiff nod of compliance feels like too much movement.

As your head bobs, a sea breeze laced with the odor of saltwater tousles your hair. The world is bringing out her tempests, singing the unwritten songs of freedom and spirit. You have to prove you’re strong enough to fight them.

“I’m okay.” Your murmur is so soft, you don’t even feel your lips move. When you force your gaping jaw closed, grit scratches between your teeth.

Staring at you in dark contemplation, Sans slides the sunglasses back into place. The scenery dulls around you. Now it doesn’t feel like you’re truly living. It’s more like you’re trapped in a series of captured moments. Printed onto the pages of a flip-book.

He lifts his head, looks around, and curses. “i miscalculated. hold on, i’ll get us closer.”

“No!”

Sans raises a disapproving eyebrow as the word bursts from your lips. You quickly move to remedy, ducking your head, and tucking in your shoulders. “Please, can’t we walk? It…it’ll be good for me.”

It’s not a total lie; your feet still tire quicker than they probably should with exertion and could do with some strengthening. But the lingering frostbite effects don’t bother you as much as they used to.

You force your face into a more mutual expression; the more desperate you look, the easier of an indication it’ll be that this isn’t the true reason you don’t want to teleport again.

You _need_ to be out here. Already, the fresh air and change of scenery have made you feel more alive than you ever knew you could.

Mercifully, after sizing up his odds, Sans grunts. “fine. but i’ve got some rules.”

Immediately, you nod. You’re willing to do anything for this feeling of thriving.

“number one is, don’t look anybody in the eyes without checking with me first. we’re going to have a lot of monsters and humans staring while we’re together. that doesn’t mean i want you looking back.”

The idea of having eyes on you makes your skin crawl. You force your shudder to remain internal. You didn’t crack under the pressure of judgement when you were a child. You refuse to allow it to break you now. Not when you’ve got this chance on the line.

“number two is, when we’re around other people, don’t talk to anybody. you keep your pretty mouth shut. anything you need to say to me, you say in your head. unless i tell you it’s okay to do otherwise. let’s practice it. do you understand me?”

 _“Yes, Sans.”_ The murmur is so soft in your mind, you don’t even feel your neurons firing.

He leans forward and presses a kiss against your hairline. “good girl. now, number three, the final rule, is the most important of all.”

He grips your wrist hard enough to bruise. You sidle closer before he decides to pull.

His voice rumbles like a thunderhead about to explode. “absolutely **_no_** running off. you stay beside me at all times. if you try anything funny, i will catch you. and i swear, you _will_ regret it later.”

Your vocal cords freeze up like they’ve been doused in ice water. It seems Sans isn’t looking for a verbal response to this instruction though, because he jerks you forward soon after.

“better keep up. we can’t be late.”

Silently, the two of you trudge along the beach, kicking up sand and shell fragments with each step. The ground beneath you is softer and finer than snow, which makes it a lot easier to trek through. So your feet don’t get as achy and sore as they normally do.

It’s a good thing, because the lapping waves kissing your shoes are in the midst of a low tide. That gives you plenty of beach to tread.

You itch to peel off your boots, to feel the dampened sand between your toes. Plus, with the sun continuing to shine above, you reach the sweltering point in no time. Coat and jeans drenched, what sweat doesn’t stick to the fabrics itches as it settles in the cracks of the scarring collarbone brand. But you don’t dare ask to stop or attempt to remove your clothes.

But even with all that, the change of scenery keeps your energy boosted. The state of Ebott, where the university you’d attended was located, and supposedly the first place monsters were spotted when they emerged from underground, was located in a more northern, mountainous region of the country. Nowhere near the coasts, and _never_ this hot in the month of January. You wonder if before this, Sans ever took his brother on any trips across country, or if he preferred to stay in the climate he was used to.

Personally, if you never saw another snowflake again, you wouldn’t consider it the end of the world.

 _“I wish we could stay here forever…”_ you muse, arriving at the bottom of a dock ladder.

“today’s a big day.” Sans hoists you up to allow you to climb first. “nothing’s ever going to be the same after it ends. that doesn’t mean you get your hopes up.”

His cryptic words don’t make any sense. Not until your head breaks above the barrier of the dock. Your hand nearly slips off the top rung, but you barely notice it. Nothing hurts more than your soul, as though it is what’s being pierced by tiny wooden splinters.

Past the dock and the boardwalk that runs along the beach, beyond the lines of palm trees and honorary statues. In the near distance a building stands with the dominant grace of a Renaissance palace.

Stretching around with bundles of perfectly symmetrical attached pavilions, it grabs your attention and refuses to let go. Even just looking at it on the horizon, the articulate detail cannot be ignored. From the placement of the cornerstone, to the slab of marble painstakingly sculpted into the front staircase. Its tall domed roof is turquoise from copper that’s worn from decades of elemental exposure. But rather than looking decrepit or run down, it only serves to enhance the elegance of this building.

_Your seventh grade teacher had looked so thrilled when she’d explained the reactions involved in causing it to look like that. She’d worked so hard to gather the funds to include this stop on your across-state class field trip. You hadn’t had the heart to tell her you already had the tour guide’s speech memorized. That you’ve been to this building and others like it more times than you can count on your two hands._

“ _What are we doing here?”_ Even though there are no fellow beach-goers in sight around you, you still keep your wondering contained to your head. Practice for the crowds you’re supposedly going to be enduring.

Sans pulls your hair behind your shoulders again, smoothing it against the back of your head. _“you’ll see.”_

After a while of more walking, you finally encounter civilization and start running into individuals. They’re everywhere, doing a number of everyday activities you used to consider mundane. Jogging past on the walkway. Selling hotdogs and other assorted goods from street carts topped with tin roofs or colorful umbrellas. Hurrying to work or other commitments. Checking their phones, or just watching the world pass by.

Yet as they breeze past, going about their days, every single one takes a moment to pause and stare at Sans and you. Most of them are so obvious, it’s clear that trying to hide their streams of emotions is the last thing on their minds. You don’t know what hurts more; the blatant gawking or the quick darting glances from those onlookers who need to have their curiosity piqued, but are attempting to be discrete because they don’t want to get involved.

_“don’t be fooled; they’d steal you away in a heartbeat if you got too close. turn you against me by telling you lies. hurt you in ways you can’t imagine. the quiet ones are always the most dangerous.”_

Sans has you pinned so closely to his side that it’s like your hipbones are literally fused. He stomps forward on his mission, and while he’s demanded you direct your eyes anywhere but at the people, he feels untouchable enough to shoot a dangerous scowl in every direction. Practically daring to be approached. But even those with curling lips of disgust shy away and move on with their business. Nobody even wants to risk brushing shoulders. It’s like you have a protective force field around you. Yet there's a part of you that starts to wonder if maybe the smart thing to do would be to ask to go back home.

In the end, it doesn't matter. This part of the country is thousands of miles away from where you lived. There’s no way the news stories you were involved in would spread this distance. Not that it would matter if they did and any of these passersby heard them.

Most of their focus is set on the sight of the big, bad, monster terrorizing their city. They all see you. But none of them see _you_.

You can’t tell whether you consider that to be a good thing, or a bad thing.

_At least no one’s getting hurt._

A loose board in the walkway trips you up, and a nearby woman nursing her baby on one of the memorial benches sees it. She opens her mouth, but Sans whips around and snarls at her. At the sight of his bared teeth, all that leaves her lips is a tiny gasp. Her baby begins to wail, no doubt due to sensing its mother’s shift in emotions. Guilt rips through you.

_“Was that really necessary? You don’t know what she was going to say. Maybe she just wanted to know if I was alright.”_

_“you’re not her concern.”_

You bite your tongue as the serenity of nature finally merges into metropolis. Mere feet away, across an intersection of busy road is a black wrought-iron fence that surrounds the building you’d spied from the beach. It really was his set destination.

Maybe Sans has some hidden appreciation for history and architecture?

The gate is open, welcoming all to enter the premises. All the way up, the cobblestones leading to the main doors bustle with commotion. Security guards keep close watch, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. News trucks park along the front of the street, and you perk your ears at the sound of a reporter speaking into a camera.

“This will be the first of four debates between the remaining candidates. After months of hard campaigning, each of the three parties is down to a primary member, all of whom aspire to be our next head of the country. Everyone is eager to hear the battle on what measures each hopeful leader believes are best to tackle our country’s most pressing issues.”

More like what empty promises they’ll come up with to entice voters into contributing their support. Much like it seems Sans is offering. You feel nauseous.

_“I thought this was a honeymoon.”_

Sans doesn’t slow his steps. _“i never said that.”_

Though he told you not to get your hopes up, yours are dangerously close to shattering. This had started off such an adventure. Was it so much to ask for a full day of him just wanting to spend time with you? No expectations, except for a shared good time.

 _“Come on baby…”_ You’ve never tried using a pet name on him, but for some reason you feel it’ll help stomp down your disappointment. You slide your hand under his jacket, hoping it’ll be enough to entice him. “ _You’re all wound up._ _Can’t we just settle into a hotel or go back to the beach? There’s a reason they named a drink after a certain activity you can do there…”_

Before you can slip past his shirt, Sans snatches your hand. He squeezes so hard, the joints in your fingers crack.

_“shut up and stop being such a child. i already gave you a warning. one more complaint, and what little of my patience is left is going to evaporate.”_

There’s too many people around to risk shedding tears. But what was the reason for this? He could make you watch the debate on television if he wants to further prove how bad things are in the world. The memorable moments will be all anyone talks about until the next big story.

You’re missing some bigger, pressing matter. Something that makes him feel it’s prudent for you to experience this live.

Something he considers more important than making you happy.

Another sound, chanting, momentarily distracts you. At the foot of the marble staircase, there’s a cluster of monsters shaking homemade signs. Slogans like “Monsters Matter!” and “We Have Souls Too!” are painted in bold lettering on poster board. Some of them just have blotchy heart emblems.

The way Sans described things earlier, you’re surprised there’s no counter-protestors trying to rile them up or start a riot. Relieved, but surprised.

It’s still early yet. Maybe they’re on their way…

“My friends! I am so pleased you could make it!”

The sight of white fur and a familiar purple dress send your knees quivering. The goat monster races out of the crowd, making a beeline straight for you. As she stretches her arms for an embrace, you shrink away.

_“What is she doing here?”_

_“trying to kick-start a revolution. and you’re the most important part.”_ Before you can ask what he means, Sans grimaces and talks aloud. “hey Tori. my mate’s got a bit of a sore throat, so she won’t be doing any talking right now. but she’s curious about your group.”

She smiles proudly. “Oh, this little thing? I wished to run as a candidate for ruler of this country, but they rejected my application because I am not yet a citizen.”

At first glance, it seems reasonable. That’s a rule that even applies to the humans in this country. But knowing there is no opportunity for her to remedy her status, especially given that she has experience in government, enrages you.

“So I decided to try another approach. We started in Ebott, but since then, pockets have sprung up all over the land. We hold protests at rallies, send letters and petitions to government officials, all sorts of peaceful ways to remain heard. These humans cannot keep us silenced. We refuse to be forgotten or discarded.”

That’s…honorable. A flicker of respect sparks from your soul. You wonder if this is a taste of what she was like as a monarch. Soft-spoken, yet strong. Regal, yet humble and compassionate for those she ruled over.

Toriel turns to Sans. “You are just in time. They’re only allowing monsters in if they are accompanied by a human, so attendance should be no problem for the two of you. I believe the event will be live-streamed, as a courtesy to the nation’s people. I will stay here and observe that way. So if necessary, I can deal with any… _trouble_ …”

“thanks Toriel.” Sans shifts and casts a look over his shoulder, ensuring none of the security guards are looking at him directly. “the meeting place for afterward is still the same?”

“It is.” Toriel smiles warmly and clasps your ring hand between her own two fluffy hooved paws. “You are doing all monsters a tremendous service. Thank you, my child.”

_“I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”_

Sans is forced to teleport inside to avoid the security measures. Once inside the legislative building’s auditorium, he selects two seats in the very back, hidden in the shadows left by the spotlights. As the rest of the room fills, you squirm. Their curved backrests are hard and in dire need of replacement. The growing ache makes it even more impossible to get comfortable. Another broad-casting reporter on the floor catches your ear. 

“Everyone seems most interested to hear what the candidate for the Alliance Party will have to say. Despite being a last minute addition to the campaign, she has quickly soared to the top of many popularity polls. Unfortunately, due to a last-minute family commitment, she will be unable to attend. As these are extenuating circumstances, her campaign manager will be speaking on her behalf…”

As her voice dies off, Sans grips his skull.

_“damn it. they were supposed to be here…”_

Before you can ask who he’s talking about, his attention is drawn to the debate moderators taking their seats. They introduce themselves to the crowd, explain how the debate will proceed, and warn that there is a strict intolerance for any interruptions. Finally, the speakers themselves are announced, along with the name of the man speaking in replacement.

Three candidates for three parties. The Green Party, the center-right Labor Party, and the center-left Alliance Party.

Their names go in one ear and out the other as you watch them enter the room. It’s their appearances that you notice most.

They are all older gentlemen, two of them close to balding,and one with a potbelly. Each dons an expensive suit and tie that probably cost more than the average person’s monthly wages. Their smiles and waves are polite and not over-exaggerated. As they walk onto the stage and move to stand behind their respective podiums, they hold themselves like gods.

The audience whoops and claps and cheers, and their ruby souls swell with pride.

Immediately, you know what Sans and Toriel want you to do.

You stiffen, and Sans mistakes the apprehension for a desire to take action.

_“not yet. wait.”_

He rests a hand on your knee, and you jerk away, clenching your chair arm in a death grip. He frowns. _“where is all this attitude coming from?”_

You don’t have a verbal explanation. You let the image of Candy’s cold body fill in the blanks for him. You don’t know if you can take another corpse on your hands.

 _“just relax. you’ve done this a million times before.”_ Sans holds the hand closest to him. _“don’t get unstable now and make me think taking you out was a mistake. remember our vows. this is for the betterment of our union.”_

After everyone rises for the national anthem, the first question is fired to the Labor Party, one about student loan debt.

The debate begins.

It is many dragging hours of listening to the three men ramble. They’re mostly courteous towards each other, respectful in their counters. Every once in a while, a particularly splitting topic will arise, resulting in a bit of back and forth. But before tensions can rise too high, the moderators shift to their next questions. You risk dozing off several times, but Sans pinches you and grumbles to pay attention every time your eyelids hint at drooping.

It’s when the debate reaches its second half that things truly heat up.

One of the moderators, a middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a mass of thick curls, leans into her microphone. “Nearly two years ago to the date, we experienced what historians now refer to as The Great Emergence. A cataclysmic event that resulted in monsters arising from underground and walking among us. While many steps were implemented to accommodate them, including a census to register their names and personal information, and allowing them to convert their gold into our coin and bill monetary system, many insist that our federal government has not done enough. Now that the current head of state’s third and final term is coming to an end, what kind of future do you envision for the monster population in this country?” She looks to the man standing behind the Green Party podium. “Mr. Doe, you have two minutes to answer.”

The speaker’s pudgy face blooms with color as he leans forward on the stand. “These creatures seem to know nothing but how to take. Since their arrival, our country’s population has doubled, and with it, so has our energy consumption and greenhouse gas levels. And we don’t know how much of that can be contributed to their magic! Furthermore, how do we know that this stuff isn’t radioactive, and harmful to our children?”

He pauses for a moment to let his fearmongering sink in, and then starts again.

“We were concerned about resources before they came to live amongst us, and these concerns are only going to worsen if these _things_ keep making demands. They say if they were given schooling opportunities, they could help us. But honestly? How well could they do in our education systems? A dog can be taught tricks, and even a horse with enough patience can be taught simple arithmetic, but not calculus. And in the end, that’s all these monsters are; animals. That is how the future should view them.”

You’re wide awake, cheeks heated, as a spattering of applause fills the arena.

Keeping a mutual expression, the moderator nods and looks to the blue bannered Labor Party podium. “Mr. Lous, you may debate. You also have two minutes.”

The bearded gentleman nods in thanks and clasps his hands in front of him. “Obviously, I sympathize with the plight of the monsters. After being trapped for so long, they desire freedom, and I have no problem allowing them to stay here.”

His opening sentence is so coated in false sympathy, you wish you could shake him to detect if his chest is hollow, or if there’s a shrunken heart rattling around in his ribcage. You settle for rolling your eyes as he shifts his shoulders.

“I feel they could be of great use to our country. Their magic could have remarkable potential in a number of areas. Medical. Weaponry and defenses to help our troops overseas. However, that being said, I don’t feel comfortable allowing them to take the jobs of our hard-working human civilians. Especially considering we don’t know how many of them are criminals. We have to think about what’s best for our economy, and right now, I’m not sure how they fit in that.”

As the moderator glances at the final speaker, your nose is so scrunched up, this day will most likely end with you gaining permanent wrinkles. This is it. Their final chance at salvation. If this person truly honors equality, like his party has always sworn it does, he’ll say he sees them as individuals. Not as mindless animals. Not as a resource to be exploited and used.

“Mr. Smith of the Alliance Party, you now have two minutes to debate or comment on this topic.”

He shuffles and clears his throat. “This is certainly a delicate situation, and honestly, we could have an entire debate talking about the issues we’ve already discussed that includes how monsters impact them and vice-versa. There is no doubt that the world and our country is changing, and we will have to change with it.”

So far, so good…

Then he sighs and works his jaw.

“But the fact of the matter is, we already have a hard time taking care of all the humans living here. If they want to be seen on the same level as us, they need to accept that while we will try to make improvements, nothing is set in stone. Nothing is a guarantee. And I think, if they are not satisfied, they can go back to where they came from. Maybe that would be what’s best for everybody in the long run.”

A vibrating starts in your toes and works its way up until your entire body is shaking uncontrollably. Anger is a beast, pacing in circles inside you, dying to raise its head and roar.

Sans leans into your ear. His words are a kiss of poison.

_“ **do it**.”_

In an almighty blast, you unleash your power. Your soul burns hot as the sun had shone outside. While the room gleams with hundreds of souls, it’s completely effortless to breeze past all the unimportant ones and lock on to your targets. The three disgusting hearts on stage, oozing with self-righteousness and greed. 

Their owners are all so _ignorant_. Why is it so hard for them to demonstrate some impartiality? Or even, just an ounce of fucking decency? To admit that the way things currently are isn’t _fair_?!

You’re not even thinking of specific colors as you lash out at the three of them. You just want to watch that red bleed from their corrupted souls.

If Sans is offering spoken encouragement, you can’t hear it. But you feel it in the tiny, jagged part of your soul that’s now occupied by a piece of his.

In this headspace, nothing properly exists, so you can’t feel your physical body. But you still sense a churning where your stomach should be. There’s nowhere for the non-existent contents to go, so they just turn, and turn, and turn, increasing your nausea. As your rage begins to drain, something reminiscent of lightheadedness leaks from your soul. A cruel, wisp of sensation that spills over it and quietly encourages you to give in to the dizzying sensation. To relax, and trust that everything is going to be fine. Asking you to give in and allow it to take control. For it to fuel your fury.

The throbbing citrine parts that come from you refuse to listen to it, begging for rest.

The little white shard that has claimed a home in the center of your soul doesn’t like that. It expands, and it feels like hundreds of tiny barbs are piercing your essence. Threatening to rip you apart from the inside out.

The soul of the Labor Party leader has gone from red to royal blue, and the shade still isn’t finished shifting. You try to pull back, to make it stop, but the transformation is too far gone. And still, more energy is being forced to gush from your cracked soul.

He grips his chest right before he starts to fall forward. A sick ‘crack’ resounds as his head hits the podium and he drops. His clammy, pale visage and blue lips make first contact with the stage.

The Green party candidate races forward, wheezing for someone to call emergency services. He’s winded, his face now purple rather than red. By the time he reaches his opponent, he’s collapsed as well. His soul’s new green shade is festering, turning mold-like.

As the Alliance Party leader’s cell phone leaves his grip, his hand is frozen in its gnarled position. He can’t seem to figure out what part of his body hurts most, hollering like a banshee. Moments later, he drops like a stone. Shimmering liquid trickles from his ears, and the pools onstage reflect the still-mutating color of his soul.

Then, everything stops. Your power drains.

There is only the flicker of a silent moment before the room is thrown into hell.

Chaos erupts around you. Audience members scream and shove to be the first through the exits. Reporters are shouting for camera connections to be severed. Security hollers for everyone to cover their heads, scrambling with their intercoms and weapons. Trying to piece together what just happened.

They can’t see it. They’ll never know.

Sans is practically salivating as he watches the fallout. Meanwhile, you just sit and stare ahead, eyes hollow. No true sound leaves your mouth, but guttural chokes and gasps play all around and somehow you know they’re coming from you.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t _breathe_.

The on-site paramedics arrive, blocking your sight of the bodies. But they get there seconds too late.

You’ve already seen the final results of the souls. Flaking to pieces above their hosts.

They’re grey as ash.

This isn’t _right._

The madness claims you, and everything goes black.

You come to back-first on a carpeted floor. Your coat and sunglasses are gone. With no sense of how much time has passed, you’re terrified to move.

Somewhere, a television must have been playing the live broadcast, because there’s a continuous hiss of fuzzy static. It’s not enough to block the sounds of armageddon replaying over and over in your ears.

Your vision clears, and you find a group of monsters towering over you. All with their eyes fixated directly on you.

A whisper starts in the back and turns into a wave that crashes into you.

“Angel.”

“Avenging Angel.”

“Avenging Angel of the Underground.”

This is too much. You want to leave. You want to get out of here, wherever here is, and find some way to wipe away all memory of this day. Forget it even existed.

_“It was supposed to be a **honeymoon**.”_

Wailing, you try to sit up, but everything is spinning, and suddenly you can’t tell up from down, left from right.

Then, overtop of all the spiraling insanity…

“everybody get the **_fuck_ **out!”

You close your eyes as the murmurs vanish, replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps. The relief is only momentary, as dense marrow slips under your neck, and you fight against the pressure trying to get you to lay back.

“Get off! Get off of me!”

“calm down sweetheart, calm down! don’t get all worked up; you’re in a safe place.”

Surging upward, you latch onto the sensation of denim jacket between your fingers. It hurls you back into lucidity, and when you open your eyes again, you see the only person you want to see right now.

“Sans!” Babbling, you tug him, needing him so close, you can feel his existence intermingling with yours. “I don’t know what happened! I didn’t mean to! I swear, I didn’t mean to do it again!”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” Sans adjusts you so he can properly look you in the eyes and laughs in cruel delight. “sweetheart, that was perfect! absolute retribution! you were really holding back on us before, weren’t you?!”

Burning acid ascends your throat as you continue to insistently shake your head.

“No! No! Sans, something’s _wrong with me_!”

At your persistent contradictions, his grin drops. He blinks. “wrong with you?”

“Yes! I can’t handle teleportation, and my soul’s power is completely out of control!”

“you changed their colors. that’s what you were supposed to do.”

_“They aren’t supposed to turn **grey**!”_

“why are you getting so fucking hysterical? i don’t know what you’re…hold on…” he leans closer, taking a deep breath. “you smell different…”

Recognition grows his sockets to the size of saucers. Without warning or regard of whoever may still be in the room, he shoves you down and rips off your pants. The button goes flying, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy staring at the crotch, stained with light spots of brown, oxidized blood.

When he snaps, it’s sudden.

Sans shakes the foul sight in your face furiously. “this is why you fainted? why you’re acting so crazy? you hurt yourself? _again_?!” They’re more of accusations than questions.

He comes close to hitting you, and you cower beneath him. “N..no! I didn’t!”

His nares flare. “how did you hide it so i didn’t notice it earlier? what did you do?!”

“Nothing! I swear!” The discomfort of cramps grips you, and you scramble for the most logical explanation. “It…it must be just a late period!” You’ve been waiting for it to come back. With all the stress, you hadn’t thought the skipping of a few months unusual. 

“No, that is not what that is.”

Toriel’s voice is soft, but there’s something in it that demands she be listened to. It’s almost triumphant.

Sans stiffens as she moves beside him, but doesn’t demand she step back. She extends a finger, and you sit up on your elbows to follow it. You nearly missing what she’s gesturing to.

What you’d passed off earlier in the cabin as the beginnings of jaundice. A blotch of discoloration no bigger than a poppy seed on your stomach skin.

No, not on it, you realize…

 _Under_ it.

In the shape of a heart.

“What you have discovered is implantation bleeding. Sans, your soulmate is pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Abuse (Verbal, Physical, and Psychological), Gaslighting, Talk of Politics, Racist Views, Graphic Depictions of Death, Pregnancy
> 
> Thank you for all of your support! It really helps to keep me motivated and help me power through! I can't wait to hear what you guys think of this one! Take care! <3


	24. *Baby Blues*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Y/N wants is to be the best mate she can be for Sans. But that's proving to be more difficult than she ever could have anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags are in the End Notes
> 
> Things got really real in the last chapter! Thank you to all who commented on it! There was some really great discussion afterward.  
> I look forward to seeing what you guys think of this one. Obviously, comments are not required, but they do help keep me motivated! Overall, I hope you enjoy!

The word doesn’t register properly in your mind.

You hear the pop of the first letter, and then the rest of it bounces off like you’re wearing a thick coat of armor. Surely you misheard Toriel. Surely that’s not what she said. Or if it is, it’s a joke. A cruel, sick joke.

She’s not offering a punchline. She’s just standing stock-still, pointing like she’s accusing you of some heinous crime.

Your breath catches in your throat. You refuse to move. Afraid the slightest twitch could be enough to confirm her suspicions. Will break the spell you’re under and force you to acknowledge what she’s suggesting is fact.

She’s a liar. She’s lying. She’s _lying_ to you. You’re not ~~pregnant~~ that…

It’s not true. It’s not. It’s not, it’s not, it’s _notnotnotnotnot_ ….

Sans frowns. “you sure, Toriel? she doesn’t look ~~pregnant~~ different. don’t humans get, like…” he stretches his hands out away from his sides. “ _super_ fat?”

Oh god. Right now, your stomach is only slightly bloated, something you’d contributed to the effects of malnutrition. What would he think when you started to more clearly show? When your whole body swelled?

Would he still find you attractive?

It doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to happen. You’re _NOT_ expecting.

You’ll show them. You’ll _prove_ she’s wrong. Angrily pressing your lips together in a thin line, you scrub your fingers across the yellow blot. Waiting to watch it smear like a mustard stain, or wipe away entirely.

But if anything, the rubbing makes it glow _brighter_.

Your heart plummets like a stone to the bottom of your ribcage.

“I am not as familiar with human ~~reproduction~~ biology, but I believe that happens later.” The goat monster clasps her hands together and beams down at you. “I cannot believe I did not see it earlier! You are positively _glowing_ , my child!”

Toriel genuinely considers this a serendipitous announcement. Further proof that she has lost touch with reality. If your hands are any indication of your outward appearance, your face is probably pallid. A better description would be to say you resemble a corpse. This must be the way it feels to hear that a loved one has died. Like you’ve swallowed a mouthful of lithium, been doused in numbing energy.

You’d been so concerned about all the other consequences of unprotected sex. Sexually transmitted infections. The stigma you’d face if you didn’t wait until getting married. Why hadn’t you ever considered the most finalizing outcome of them all?

The truth is hard to face.

You hadn’t wanted to believe this was possible. Even now, refusal is a persistent roaring force.

As Toriel rambles on about what a joyous occasion today is turning out to be, Sans drops your pants in a heap on the floor in front of you. His frown is gone, replaced with a funny, twisted expression. When you try to peek into his mind, all you hear is silence.

You start to feel as heavy as you would if he was inflicting you with that cyan, gravity-stealing spell. He’s pissed. He _must_ be pissed. He doesn’t have the patience for ludicrous notions such as this.

But then he blows out a long-winded stream of air. “gotta admit, Toriel, i wasn’t _expecting_ this. you caught me by _stork_ surprise.” A crooked smile juts across his face. “you hear that, sweetheart? now i’ll have an excuse for all my corny _~~Dad~~_ jokes.”

_No. Don’t be happy about this…_

You’re thankful you’re on the floor, because if you were standing right now, you’d most likely pass out. The world feels like it is spinning. You barely recognize the sound of your voice under the roaring in your ears.

“How did this happen?”

Sans takes a step closer and cocks his head in mock contemplation. “well, you see sweetheart, when a monster and a woman love each other very much…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and flatten your hands over your ears. The roaring has morphed into a repetitive drumming. _Like a ~~heartbeat~~ metronome_. “Please…” You hardly hear yourself as you struggle to spit words out. _“Stop…”_

He emits a husky chuckle that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. “would you prefer a physical demonstration over the lecture?”

Your pants are still removed. Sans takes full advantage of that, claws easily circling around your center. Your blood clots in your arteries.

“Sans, I don’t feel well…”

His pace increases as he snarls under his breath. “you were practically pawing at me earlier. now when i’m in the mood, you’re not interested? trying to play games?”

Arguing will do you no good. Forcing yourself to go limp, you try to focus on counting the cracks in the crown molding.

“because i promise, sweetheart, i _always_ win.”

You tilt your head back in submission. If appeasing him will keep him happy, then you’ll do what you have to. This is fine. You want this.

A directed cough abruptly sounds in front of you. Sans rips his hand away, jerking back like he’s been electrocuted, and twists in its direction. Toriel’s expression is polite, but her smile is tight as she points towards a door behind her shoulder.

“Sans, the other monsters are waiting in the next room to hold a meeting to discuss our next plans.”

A crash comes from another part of the house, proving her point. Mood effectively killed, Sans glowers up at Toriel. Pupils dilated to pinpoints, his stare is borderline murderous. “you can do that without me.”

Her voice turns firm. “There is no reason for me to relay the information more than once. Humans are unaware of the locations of our group’s safe houses. Upstairs there is a room prepared for the two of you. Your mate will be fine being left there alone for a few hours.”

Refusal is not something she seems to tolerate. It’s clear she’s not budging on the issue, so Sans wrenches himself to his feet and reluctantly grumbles in a jaded tone.

“fine.”

Silently, you follow them up a rickety staircase that leads to the top level of the house. The room is small, with walls painted a pale greyish-blue. It’s a stereotypical male color, further proof to reinforce your belief that Toriel has rigged this whole thing. There are two extra doors along with the main entrance; one to a tiny ensuite, and the other made entirely of glass. It slides open and leads out to a balcony overlooking the waters.

“I have a room made up like this in all of the safe houses across every state,” Toriel hums, seemingly pleased with herself. You don’t acknowledge her. You don’t even notice when she leaves.

The bed’s mattress is harder than the one in the cabin. The stench in the blankets is that of fabric softener, rather than the rustic musk you’ve grown accustomed to. The only remote sense of comfort you find comes from squishing your entire body, legs and all, in an available rocking chair. The antique piece was originally positioned to face the sea. But you yank the drapes over the sliding door and turn the furniture so you’re staring at a blank patch of wall. Its constant movement is enough of a reminder of the water that you’re not allowed to touch.

You curl up under a patchwork quilt, ensuring it entirely covers your ~~uterus~~ knees and legs. The haunted eyes of the hanging pictures bead down on you like all of the living eyes you’d encountered earlier. Like they can see right through it.

You’d thought getting out would be a good thing, an adventure. But as you drift into a restless sleep, all you want is to go home.

“This is just a horrible nightmare,” you insist. It’s the only way you can get your body’s tension to ease.

When you wake up, you’ll see…

***

Three nights later, an open box of ~~pregnancy~~ hormone tests sits to your right. Toriel purchased them on the morning of your first full day here, insisting you take one as soon as she’d found out you were awake.

“Just to be on the safe side,” she’d said. As if there was any security to be found in the cheap piece of plastic inside.

You’d held off as long as you could, but the building pressure in your bladder had finally grown to be too much and forced you to squat. Your cheeks still burn with the humiliation as she’d loomed over you the entire time, watching like a hawk.

Immediately after the deed was complete she’d darted off, practically crowing with delight. Finally alone, you’d hurled the offensive piece of trash into the garbage where it belongs. But even days later, without even having looked, its results bore into you. Those ~~two~~ obnoxious pink lines add insult to the injury. Just another way to shove your situation in your face.

Not that they were necessary. Now you surge forward and retch your stomach’s minimal contents into the ensuite’s toilet. Not long after the revelation had come to light, the ~~morning sickness~~ nausea had kicked in. Along with a barrage of other symptoms. How could something so small be so destructive? It’s as though your body is trying to cement a permanent reminder that you are not the only being inhabiting it anymore.

Like this parasite seeks revenge for how long you went clueless about its existence.

Sans holds your hair back to prevent it from getting matted with bile. With his other hand, he rubs your back. In the moments of reprieve, when your esophagus burns and your nose stings from the stench of toilet water and stomach acid, the up-and-down motion, is soothing. Even through the flimsy fabric of your dress, it helps to keep you from passing out.

“Toriel’s thinking of hosting a party tomorrow,” Sans informs you, moving to push your headband back into its proper place. “some kind of ~~double~~ celebration for everything that happened on the day of the debate. says she needs me in attendance because i’m her second-in-command now. but i want you to stay up here. you need as much bed rest as possible.”

Feeling like you’re dying of the plague as you are, you doubt you’d be very good company anyway. You’re barely able to manage your groan of acceptance.

It seems the puking has subsided for now. He carries you back to bed and tucks you securely under the smelly blankets with a garbage can nearby, in case it returns and you can’t make it to the bathroom in time.

As Sans disappears in search of some food and water—he insists substance and hydration is of utmost importance right now-- you doubt his mandatory rest cure will provide much benefit. It’s not just the physical drain taking a toll. If anything, the mental turmoil is more excruciating.

Wide awake, your eyes fall to the pictures on the wall. Many of them are close-ups of snails (weird). But there is one that looks like a ~~family~~ portrait.

Toriel stands beside another goat monster. He’s bigger than she is. Taller, and with wide, broad shoulders covered by a purple cloak held together by a clasp in the same shape as the insignia on her dress. His curved horns end in sharp points, but his bearded face brims with an abundance of kindness. A gentle giant. You wonder what happened to him.

And in front, shoulders clasped in their hands, there’s a smaller goat, holding a bouquet of golden flowers. Floppy ears that hang to his shoulders like Toriel’s. Eyes that turn up in the corners as he smiles, like the older males. There’s something else to his left, but nothing seems as crucial as staring at this ~~child~~ young goat. Your hands travel to your stomach of their own accord, as though triggered by this image.

What does it look like, this thing invading your body? What stages of development will be skipped due to its skeletal genes? Do skeletons even have chromosomes to pass down? What possible congenital disorders do you have to worry about? What if it ends up being infertile, like the mules that come from the cross-breeding of horses and asses? When this ~~pregnancy~~ ordeal is over, is it going to kill you?

~~Will it come out more resembling you, or Sans?~~

You jerk your eyes away from the photograph before it starts to make you queasy again. The room is beginning to feel too closed in, so you force yourself out of bed and step out onto the overhanging balcony.

The cool night air is refreshing, despite the smell. If anything, you crave the welcome taste of brine. It, combined with the sight of boats tied up and bobbing in the harbors, guides you to a safe space in your mind.

“She seems rather…apprehensive…”

Toriel’s voice trickles out from a window at the very end of the house, disturbing your peace. Curiosity nibbles, so you creep to the end of the balcony and crouch down so you can listen while remaining hidden.

Sans’ coarse dialect soon follows, pouring out like smoke. “it’s just ~~first-kid jitters~~ anxiety. i kinda forget to have the conversation with her about ~~whether we wanted~~ ~~kids~~ our future before getting busy. heat of the moment and all, you know?”

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you fight the urge to stand up, and continue to listen.

Toriel laughs. “Of course, and I could not be happier for the two of you. But Sans,” the lighthearted tone dissipates. “as your friend, I feel I must warn you…this is going to take a toll on her.”

The tension between the two of them would need a hatchet to break through. You can picture Sans, the building red light in his socket a warning to proceed with caution. His words come out stiff, probably as rigid as his posture. “you trying to say my ~~child~~ mate is a burden?”

Toriel’s response is immediate. “No, not at all! But as someone who’s experienced, I know this will be a lot to prepare for on her own.”

“she won’t be on her own. she’ll have me.” The definitive nature of Sans’ response sends a chill running down your spine.

“Of course, and I have no doubt you will be a wonderful ~~father~~ provider Sans.” Toriel’s words sound kind, but the slowness of her pace hints there’s a ‘but’ coming soon. Sure enough…

“But… ~~children~~ humans thrive with a large support system. Parents. Teachers. Friends.” She hesitates, lingering so long on that last word, you almost wonder if she’s finished her thought. Then she tacks on one more. “Grandparents…”

Sans hacks out a bitter laugh. “so that’s what this is about. you don’t care about my mate. you care about advancing your agenda.”

Toriel sputters, but it’s clear Sans doesn’t want to hear it.

“i brought my mate here as a courtesy. but there are other ways i can make her smile. The proof of that is in her ~~womb~~ soul. don’t forget that, Tori.” His voice is cold, threatening. “you and your husband may have been lousy parents and killed your kids, but that doesn’t mean i will.”

Kids? You’d only seen one young goat in the photo. Maybe you should consider inspecting it again. Sans has clearly brought up a touchy subject. Toriel is speechless. Gone is the queen from earlier who wasn’t afraid to lay down commands. In her place is a meek, grieving widow ripped apart by heartache. Sympathy builds in your heart for her.

Suddenly…

“we stick to the plan as it is. no deviations.”

The door slams to the room you’ve been listening to. The panes of glass on the window shudder. You scramble back to the balcony ledge just in time to hear the rickety creak of the door to your room being opened. Sans’ voice is tight, like he’s trying to rein in his temper again.

“sweetheart? you awake?”

“Out here, Sans.” Attempting to keep the quaver out of your voice, you banish the conversation to some distant corner of your mind and pretend that you’ve been fixated on a particularly interesting star pattern the entire time you’ve been out here. Lingering goosebumps are dashed away by a quick rub along your arms.

Sans steps through the screen door balancing a paper plate with a massive wedge of pie on its side. “hope you’re hungry. found something so good, you’ll want me to throw it in your face.”

The thick dollop of whipped cream and overbearing scents of cinnamon and butterscotch more makes you want him to throw it over the side of the balcony. You accept the dish anyway. “Thank you…”

It’s not until you force yourself to swallow the final bite that he breaks the silence. “i’m dreading tomorrow.”

In the process of him taking the dish back, it slips and shatters on the ground. Sans doesn’t even notice. Instead, he grips the hole in his skull and pulls. “all those other monsters…” The fissures lacing its edges start to crack and widen. “i’m so _sick_ of hearing them talk about you.”

The jealousy mixed with the caustic sound of his head splitting is unbearable. To make it stop, you take his skull between your hands. The contact seems to snap him out of his stupor, and you tilt your head up to kiss him. Trying to silently reassure him that he’s the only one that matters. You care about the others who made it aboveground, but not in the same way.

Sans’ breathing hitches, though it’s unclear whether he’s excited by your boldness, or if with his magic, he can sense something deeper. His hands knead your shoulders, then start to trail down your arms.

“none of them,” he gasps out between the moments when your mouths are connected in intimacy, “know you like i do.”

To pacify him, as his tongue strokes along the roof and walls of your mouth, you hum in agreement. You’re so focused on the placement of your lips, the entangled mesh of tissue and teeth, that you lose track of where his hands are going. That is, until you feel a pressure building on your abdominal muscles.

“none of them put _this_ inside of you.”

As his claws dig into your stomach, you can’t hold back a wince. Sans catches it and pulls back, breathing a heavy sigh.

“look, i get it. you’re scared, cuz you’re worried you’ll screw up ~~raising a child~~ , like your parents did with you.”

Honestly, that had been the last thing on your mind. But now that the idea’s been planted, it’s all you can think of. How can you be a good role model when you never grew up with any? When you were living on your own, you were barely capable of taking care of yourself.

“but don’t worry; i’ll guide you through it. Papyrus turned out alright, eh?” Sans winks unabashedly. “plus, i did a decent job teaching you to behave, didn’t i?”

He did. He’s been so patient with you. You don’t deserve how attentive he’s been. 

Claw retreating, he turns you so your back fuses against his ribcage. Leaning against the balcony railing, you stare up at the clear night sky. Sans lightly traces around the mark of the ~~embryo’s~~ alien’s developing soul. You can’t help but think how it resembles one of the hundreds of thousands of astral bodies blinking above you. How, like them, it’s so much larger and brimming with more power than it appears at first glance.

“you may not fully realize it now, but you’re fulfilling your soul’s intent. you vowed to be dedicated to your role as my mate. part of that is ~~bearing offspring~~ carrying on our bloodline.”

He allows you a glimpse into his imagined future. Your body is littered with ~~stretch marks~~ lesions. There’s a scar, white as lightning, along your bikini line. The two of you are curled up on the sofa. Listening to the sound of laughter, too high-pitched to originate from either of you. Too innocent to come from either of your haunted and tormented persons. Beaming down at the source, cradled in your arms. Invisible for now, though you know it’s forged with half of your genetic material.

“I guess I never thought about it that way…”

There are people in the world who are unable to experience this. You should consider yourself lucky to have been given this opportunity. Blessed, even. But still, despite your ~~womb~~ life being full, you feel so empty…

Humming with contentment, Sans moves to rest his head in the crook of your shoulder. “my poor, sick little mate. are you feeling any better?”

 _Not really_. There’s a hammering behind your eyes, and your mood is swinging at speeds you can’t keep track of. At least your insides are content to _stay_ on the inside. “A little…

“oh, i know what’ll make you feel better. cheer you right up…” His tone is more wanton than it is sympathetic. He grabs your earlobe between his teeth and yanks. “being in the city was entertaining, but that was more business than pleasure. let’s indulge in a different type of fun right now.”

At the possibility of affection, you instinctively turns around, despite being nearly dead on your feet. You allow him to puppet your arms so they’re stretched above your head. Your summer dress peels off easily, like you’re a snake shedding its skin. Sans purrs with delight when he notices you hadn’t even decided to put underwear on underneath, though you hadn’t done it to be suggestive. You’d just been too exhausted to bother this morning.

When you’re properly bared, he heads for a nearby beach chair, kicking his feet up and leaning back with a careless leisure. After he removes his own shirt, his bones give off an unearthly glow beneath the starlight. You’re too fatigued to know what to do next except stare. He interprets it as acting coy.

A devious smirk takes over his skull at your lack of movement. With a crook of his finger, he tugs you towards him, and forces your legs to swing over his own so you’re straddling him. Even without direct contact, the heat from his lower region rises, taunting your core.

“i promised you a _honeymoon_ , but I guess it’s a little late to have the discussion about the birds and the _bees_.” Sans leers as he guides your tired body into his desired position. “don’t worry sweetheart, i’ll try not to _sting_.”

With two swift movements, his cock is unsheathed and nudging, ready to impale your folds. Despite being more prepared this time, you still gasp when gravity is released, forcing you to sink down on top of it. You’re dry, but his length is slick and beading with pre-cum, which helps to lubricate as he enters.

There’s a twinge, as if the growing extra soul can sense the union of its makers. That feeling, combined with that of being filled, leaves you shaky. Your hands lift, latching onto the first set of ribs they’re able to reach to steady yourself. Sans hisses with pleasure at the instigation.

“move,” he urges, shifting his hips in encouragement. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. nice and easy…”

Sans coaches you on how to rock against him to make it better. Your brain is only working at half its regular capacity, but you fumble through his instructions, if only because it gives you something else to think about for a little while. While this isn’t how you’d planned to spend the evening, you’ll gladly welcome a new train of thought. As a bonus, it will further reinforce how focused you are on his pleasure. That’s what you want more than anything.

Eventually, you start to find a wobbly rhythm. Falling forward is easy, but Sans has to hoist his pelvic area a little higher to encourage you to lean back. The retreat allows you to take him deeper, and the constant shifts in penetration rouse your nerves, setting them afire.

Once you’ve settled into a constant, albeit unsteady pace, his attention turns to your bust. Eyes widening, he takes it in. “they’re bigger,” he rasps in astonishment.

Indeed, you’ve already increased a cup size, so the flesh is spilling out from the confines of your bra. When he reaches back and unhooks the latch, allowing the imprisoned region to breathe, your breasts scream in relief.

When he grabs for them however, even just cupping them without using his whole effort to squeeze elicits a groan out of you. There’s more discomfort than pleasure in the sound, and surprisingly, he pulls back a little. His movements falter as well. “what’s wrong, sweetheart? a _nip_ in the air got you cold?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling an obligation to apologize and a deep, swelling need for him to continue. “They’re really tender. Because of the…”

It seems even sex serves as a reminder rather than a distraction. You trail off, but he seems to understand what you’re referring to. Considering this, he lightly circles the darkening skin around one of your buds.

“well, as someone who considers himself the _breast_ mate, i guess i’ll just have to take care of that for you,” he muses, before leaning forward and taking it between his teeth. After pulling once, his mouth fully envelops it, and the following suction urges a quiet moan to spill from your lips.

The beach chair underneath you creaks as the two of you resume your earlier movements. His meticulous ministrations soon drag more panting out of you as your few remaining serotonin molecules are triggered. Soon, all concept of thought slips away, lost to motion and responses.

It’s over too soon. At least this time, when Sans is done, he has the restraint to pull out first, allowing the mess to spill across your stomach, and down your thighs. He’s probably concerned about overloading your body, and you nearly weep at how thoughtful that is.

Your own orgasm is the first scrap of anything close to joy you’ve felt all day. It turns out to be fleeting, however, because as you sink to lean against Sans’ chest, he catches your chin in a hand.

“you’re allowed to love it. just don’t forget who you love most. got it sweetheart?”

Visceral dread builds and overpowers the post-coital intoxication. You don’t want to love it. You’re _afraid_ to love it. You love him. _Only_ him. But you give a simple nod to appease him.

Slipping out from under you, Sans lays you across the chair and retrieves his jacket. After wrapping it around your shoulders, he presses a chaste kiss against your forehead. “Toriel says we’re going to be away from home for a while longer. i’m gonna dash back, grab the fleabag and some of your art supplies. anything else you want?”

 _He’s so considerate._ You shake your head. “No. Thank you, Sans.”

He laces his fingers through a patch of your hair and cups your cheek. The strands are soft, much like the look he’s giving you now.

“i knew beautiful things were in store when i laid my eyes on you,” he whispers. And then, with a wink of a socket, he’s gone. His disappearance reminds you of the death of a star, the light blinking out of existence.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, distorting the shapes of the constellations above you. As powerful as they are, they can’t show you the path you need to take. It’s already been laid out for you.

This should be easy. Sans is excited. And if he’s excited, that means he’s happy. And when he’s happy, you’re happy. Therefore, you’ll do what you have to in order to keep him that way.

A breeze comes in off the water, and you shove your hands inside his pockets. They barely fit with all the junk stuffed inside.

He’s so lazy…has he ever emptied these?

Something jabs your left knuckle amidst the candy wrappers and receipts, and you pull it out. It’s the broken piece of heel from what felt like forever ago.

You roll it between your fingers. You’ve taken a life. More than one now. Maybe, as compensation, the universe has decided you need to bring it back into the world. To maintain some cosmic balance.

Returning it, you continue digging. Lint, crusty food crumbs…and then something sleek and rectangular. The stretch of your palm around the object is familiar. Your soul skips a beat as you pull it out.

Wrapped in a cheap black case. Front laced with cracks. It’s a cellphone.

A chance for _~~help~~_ …

Despite erasing the last word from your head, you still hesitantly look around, expecting to feel that looming, tingling, shift in atmosphere that indicates you’re not alone. When you’re positive that you haven’t triggered your mate’s arrival, you peer down at the device again. After pushing a button on the side, the screen lights up and illuminates your face in a heavenly glow.

In the upper corner, a battery symbol flashes red alongside a small percentage number. There’s enough life for potentially one call…

“This isn’t being unfaithful,” you whisper to reassure your throbbing soul. ~~Sans will kill you if he finds out.~~ Technically, you’re trying to do what’s best for the relationship. Maybe it’ll help you say the two words you can’t bring yourself to even write down. You have to say them to someone else. Someone you can’t see in person.

There’s only two phone numbers you can recite off by heart. The three digits to contact emergency services, and one other.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

As the fourth trill begins, you’re prepared to end the call before the answering machine picks up.

But then…

“Hello?”

You nearly drop the phone at the sound of his voice. Even through the distortion of passing through a speaker, Andrew’s voice still sounds the same. It’s soft, and warm, and just so wholeheartedly _good_. ~~It’s been so long since you last heard positivity not drenched in lust.~~ You didn’t realize until now how much you’ve missed it…

You open your mouth—

…

….

And nothing comes out.

Despite all the egregious noises you brazenly made earlier, now you can’t even manage a sob.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Your lungs fill with weightless breath they can’t expel. Now’s the chance to apologize for leaving things the way you had. But if you talk to Andrew, tell him what’s happened, you’ll only be further destroying what you had in the past. ~~Who could ever love used goods?~~

_He doesn’t know you anymore._

“Look, I don’t recognize this number. If this is some kind of prank call, or scam, you picked a really crappy week to call.”

There’s an unusual hoarseness to that sentence, followed by a sharp intake of breath that sounds like it’s coming from his nose. Has he been crying? The urge to comfort is overwhelming. A heavy ache settles in your bones at the thought that he’s hurting. But still, you hold back.

Dead air hangs between you on the line.

….

…

Then…in a shaky whisper…As if he can’t believe he’s brave enough to dare to hope…

…

…

“( _Y/N_ )? Is that you?”

…

…

If you are going to be a mother, you have to start acting responsibly.

And the first step is saying goodbye to what you can never have.

You stab the touch-screen with a brittle nail and nearly chuck it over the ledge to drown in the abyss below. But if you break or lose his phone, Sans is going to demand to know how it happened.

He’d creep into your mind, replay the events leading up to it…He’d be so ~~infuriated~~ disappointed. He’s already stressed out; you don’t need to be adding to it.

Just as you’re scrambling to delete the call log, the screen goes dead. The balcony door swings shut with a loud bang.

Your head whips up to see Toriel staring at you. Staring at the phone in your hands.

“I…I was looking for the camera feature!” You don’t even care that you’re practically naked. That you’re still coated in sweat and Sans’ spillage. Fumbling on the screen, you angle the device towards your stomach. “To show Papyrus! You know, Sans’ brother?”

Toriel doesn’t say a word. She just keeps approaching. Getting closer.

“Humans take weekly pictures, to track the progress! I wanted to surprise them!” Excuses are turning into ragged gasps. You’re choking on your desperation, barely clinging to the notion that you haven’t been caught ~~in the act~~ not resting like you should be.

Toriel is right in front of you.

“Please, don’t tell Sans!”

Her muzzle twitches. Wordlessly, she takes the phone from you, and slides it back into Sans’ right pocket. Then she enfolds her hands around your own. She looks down at you, the corners of her eyes brimming with sympathy and diamond-clear liquid for what feels like an eternity.

“Everybody has their secrets, my child.”

Then Toriel turns and goes back inside without another word. She doesn’t even look back once.

You don’t break the entwinement of your fingers apart until the balcony door is slid shut and you can no longer hear her footsteps.

Cupped in your grasp is a miniature glass vial. Curious, you uncork it and carefully tip the orifice downward.

Out pours a clump of shimmering powder that phases through the skin of your free palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/Tags: Unwanted pregnancy, mentions of vomit, depression, explicit dubcon sexual intercourse (Though with Y/N's mental state, it's more non-consensual), psychological abuse
> 
> Your support is so amazing and much appreciated. I hope you are all continuing to stay healthy and safe! Stay Determined!


	25. Necessary Evils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that he receives his True Ending...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Another Sans POV chapter! Warnings/Tags in the End Notes.  
> This one was a bit of a challenge to write, but I hope you enjoy it all the same! :)
> 
> Also, if you hadn't noticed, I put a chapter count for the story! While not written, the remaining chapters have been laid out, and we are nearing the end. I can't believe it! 
> 
> As always, thank you for your support in this endeavor. I love hearing what you guys have to say. While comments are not required, they do help keep me motivated. <3

His cabin wasn’t the only spot Sans visited. It wasn’t even his first stop.

The club was just as stuffy and brewing with indecency as it had been the first time he’d gone there. Music too loud and the stale alcohol nowhere near as good as the drinks at Grillby’s, which were brewed with the purest magic. Yet Sans knew, buried deep under everything, he would always possess the tiniest amount of sentiment for this overflowing dumpster of human temptation.

So he’d come to reminisce one last time.

January was creeping into February now, which meant it was nearing on three months. Three months since that fateful day when you’d initiated contact, sitting at this very bar. Who would have foreseen that a random act of kindness would have played out and amounted to this future?

Sans had known.

Because he’d planned it.

He’d watched, a fly on the wall in the background, as that piece of _shit_ you’d been so needlessly attached to had broken your heart. Saw the whole thing play out like a scene in a movie. As you had dashed away, while some deep, primal part of him had wanted to _rip_ the human to shreds, _smear_ his blood on the club walls for hurting you, Sans had resisted.

A stronger, more calculating part of him had whispered into his non-existent ear. Reminded him that now you were alone. Vulnerable. Gone was the need to keep observing. Months of doing that was long enough.

Now was the time for action. 

So he’d deliberately sought out two humans, whose overly confident laughter and expensive clothes screamed ‘privileged assholes.’ He’d planted himself at the bar beside those inebriated morons, in your direct line of hearing. And he’d waited.

The events that followed couldn’t have played out better if he had scripted them…

A high-pitched shriek rips through his recollection, immediately putting Sans in a bad mood. Magic simmering under his bones, his skull jerks to identify the source. It settles on a trio of scantily clad females, clinking shot glasses together before downing their contents.

One of them has a shining purple soul. While there are many humans here with that color of soul, for some reason this one stands out to Sans, and he locks onto her.

After a moment of looking past her plaited dark hair and the makeup slathered on her face, something clicks. Recognition dawns, and immediately he recalls her from fragments of your own memories, though her name is a mystery. He’d never considered the identities of the humans you associated with to be pertinent information.

_this one’s clearly moved on. that didn’t take long._

Still, when the trio exits, Sans waits a beat, then stands and moves to follow a few feet behind.

On the day of the ceremony, the day his life truly became complete, Sans had made a simple request of Toriel and Papyrus. As they were leaving after the reception, Sans had lingered at the front door. He’d asked them to inform him if they overheard talk of anyone digging too deeply into your disappearance.

It was more a precaution than a true concern, and seeing as neither of them have voiced any problems, it was most likely something that he could drop.

Nobody was going to be interested in snooping into the life of someone who’d lived every day trying to act as though she didn’t exist.

You probably didn’t even realize how easy you’d made it for Sans to make you disappear without a trace. He was impressed. Your mark on the rest of the world had been little more than a pencil mark, easily erased with time.

_it was nothing compared to what you’d been destined to leave on Sans’ soul…_

But seeing that girl, being reminded of a piece of your history without him, created an itch in the back of his spine that refused to leave, no matter how hard he scratched.

Having you away from home is probably just making him paranoid.

_still….one can never be too careful…_

A bartender calls angrily from behind him, probably because he couldn’t be bothered to pay for the bottle of swill he’d downed. Sans ignores him, and the entire walk towards the door, there’s no trouble. If anything, the bouncer looks happy to see him leaving.

_believe me buddy, i won’t be coming back…_

There is no need anymore. Not when he has everything he ever wanted waiting for him.

_everything he ever wanted and more…_

Just as he’s nearing the exit, a flier on a nearby corkboard catches his eye and gives him pause.

Among the posters advertising drink specials and advisories to not drive drunk, one of the papers features a bright red heart. In big, bold lettering around the image is the catch-phrase, “Stay Determined!” It threatens to darken Sans’ mood.

 _nobody needs to see that garbage_.

Sans rips the poster down and crumples it into a ball before chucking it in the nearest trash can. By the time he’s out the door and breathing in the cold winter fog, the group of girls has vanished. There’s no sign they were even here at all. Most likely they grabbed a taxi or other ride-hailing service to leave the premises.

“shit.”

He’s deliberating whether he can sneak into the security room to watch the footage to see if the outside cameras caught the license plate of whatever vehicle they got into. But his soul gives a sharp tug, reminding him that he needs to hurry up and get what he needs from the cabin.

Sans hadn’t planned on spending as much time here as he did. But one hour bled into the next, and continued until now. When it was technically a new day, even though there was still many hours to go before dawn would arrive. Though Toriel had assured him of your safety, worry still spikes.

He won’t be totally settled until he’s assured nobody will try to disturb you.

At the cabin, he expects to find the cat nothing but a carcass, a heap of rotting, wasted flesh. However, when he finds it in his office, it’s still alive. No doubt it resorted to hunting the rodents that crept through that hole behind the couch ( _why hasn’t he fixed that yet?_ ). Though nothing but matted fur and bones, it’s still able to give Sans its customary hiss.

Resilient little creature. Just like you. Maybe that was the reason you liked it so much.

_you’ll never have to worry again._

_everything will be taken care of._

_Sans promises._

He scoops up the cat, along with the echo flowers that recite your vows, your art supplies, and a few books to keep you entertained while you’re bed-ridden. As much as he would love to lounge beside you twenty-four/seven, you couldn’t always rely on him to provide the fun times.

_especially now that he has a new mission…_

Before zapping back to you, he takes another long look at the photos pinned to his office wall. His gaze hovers on the one that used to be his favorite. But for the first time, his glower is focused on the scratched out images, rather than your smiling face.

_if you don’t consider these people friends anymore, then really, there’s no harm in ensuring they don’t ruin the good thing you’ve got going on…_

His unleashed magic eats at the backgrounds like fire, sweeping inward. As the edges curl and smolder, strangers and those scratched out with black marker are removed permanently, disappearing in flakes of char. You are the only part of the images that remain untouched.

Your spontaneous romp on the balcony helped burn off some the stress that wore at his bones.

But there is nothing more cathartic than the thought of a hunt.

***

Brett Lous.

Rouge Smith.

John Doe.

Those are the names of the men you killed.

Originally, Sans had hoped you wouldn’t find out, but now, thinking about it critically, it was inevitable. The walls of Toriel’s safe-houses are paper-thin, and a lot of the monsters that pass through like to gossip. 

While you’ve been content to keep out of sight of the constant streams that Toriel has coming in and out, tonight you’d felt the urge to stretch your legs and explore. In doing so, you’d come across a room with a television blaring the late night news.

A full week afterward, the reports are still talking about the debate and its aftermath. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop anytime soon. Though the cause of death appears to be heart conditions, the fact that all three members died at the same time, under the same circumstances, is leading to a multitude of conspiracy theories.

Some wonder if it was an assassination attempt by a rogue desperate for attention. Others speculate they were poisoned by a terrorist organization.

One thing is for certain; tensions between monsters and humans are growing.

Admittedly, when Sans first told you about the limitations monsters had aboveground, he’d exaggerated a little. While it was true they still weren’t citizens, things weren’t quite as apocalyptic for them as he’d made it seem. But stories like the one playing right now don’t help to break that illusion.

Normally, Sans would have no problem with that. The less you believe they have, the more you feel for them. It reinforces your sympathy for him. Increases your desire to stay.

But in your condition, this is too stressful for you to be watching. You shouldn’t even be up and walking around right now.

“sweetheart? you’re not supposed to use the stairs! you could have hurt yourself! if you need something, you need to tell me!”

_that self-reliance is a nasty habit that’ll need to be broken…_

You don’t seem to hear his scolding, too engrossed in the photos of the deceased being shown onscreen. As political analysts talk in the background, discussing how this event will affect the election, Sans dashes into the room.

He snatches the remote from your lifeless hands, but when he tries to turn the television off, he accidentally hits a button that changes the channel instead.

The following footage is even worse.

The shots this particular station chose to show for this segment of their broadcast are particularly unsavory. Businesses are putting up signs reading, “Help Wanted: Monsters Need Not Apply” and “Monsters Will Not Be Served.” A group of Shyrens trying to cross the street in peace are harassed by a pack of humans. Their faces twisted with hatred and the obscenities they holler are enough to reduce the quivering monsters to tears. Temmies are rounded up and caged in animal shelters.

Sans watches carefully to gauge your reaction, ready to swoop in when you need him for comfort.

_you won’t be able to handle this._

_as much as you identify with monsters, you are still nothing but a mere mortal…_

_a **human**._

Your face pales, but no tears streak your face. You don’t even flinch away. Instead, a cold steel crosses your gaze. But Sans doesn’t miss the tremor in your voice when you speak.

“Sans…When I did…You know, what I did…Why did that happen?”

Sans sidles up alongside you, feeling your soul’s pace quicken the closer he gets. “It was an effect of our souls being fused, sweetheart. My magic intermingled with yours, and helped you deliver swift justice.”

You don’t argue the explanation. Why would you? It makes sense. Sans is good at coming up with logical answers for everything, even when he has to come up with them off the top of his head. 

Hesitantly, you look down at your chest, clenching and unclenching your fists. “Do…do you think I could do it again?”

Sans’ soul doesn’t know whether to swell or sink. He doesn’t answer as he carries you through the void and back up to your room.

It is tempting, the thought of watching as you take on the anti-monster groups. The chance to relish in the sight of you eliminating their determination piece by piece…

_we could wipe the trait from existence. then it would be impossible for events to be overwritten or altered…_

_everything would be set in stone…_

_past._

_present._

**_future._ **

But while it would be useful, there is no way you could pull it off in an efficient manner. You’d been so panicked after the first time, and Sans didn’t have the patience to deal with breakdowns every day. Plus, in your state, teleporting really takes a lot out of you. Even just this quick trip back upstairs turns your face green. You look like you’re battling against the need to run to the bathroom.

The second soul inside you quivers, reminding Sans that he has more than you to take care of you now. And even though you’re trying not to show it, you’re too fragile. So he’s confident when he provides you with an answer.

“absolutely not. now come on, get back into bed. i’ll get you some water and crackers.”

Your apathetic expression crumbles, and with that, he finally gets some emotion out of you. It’s not the one he was wanting.

Instead of expressing gratefulness, your upper lip stiffens. Your eyes ignite and they remind Sans of the sparks that fly when a piece of metal is being forged.

When he reaches towards you, you whip out of reach. Storming to the ensuite, you slam the door behind you. Sans even hears the deadbolt slide into place, despite you knowing full well it won’t stop him if he really wants to get in.

_it’s just the hormones…_

It stings, but Sans fights the urge to barge in and drag you out by your hair. Instead, he retrieves what he told you he would from the kitchen. After setting them on your side of the bed where you’ll see them, he climbs in. He tosses and turns in the sheets as he forces himself to wait.

It feels like hours pass, but eventually, you do come out on your own.

_just as he knew you would._

As you slide beside him, you don’t speak. Not a word. But the strength of your cling when you bury your face in his side is apology enough.

_deep down, you know he’s right._

_this is for your own good._

***

You’ve been having nightmares lately.

Tonight’s is an especially ugly one, featuring Sans.

_He’s grinning down at you as you lie stretched out on the cabin’s kitchen table. Wrists bound at your sides, you’re screaming. Begging and pleading for him to stop whatever he’s doing._

_But rather than comply, Sans extends a claw, and slices straight across your abdomen. The movement is agonizingly slow, like he’s intentionally drawing out the experience. His smile grows near-manic at the sight of blood bubbling up and spilling down your body._

_Then, he reaches inside the incision._

_Your insides squelch as he roots among them, but like the screaming, Sans doesn’t even seem to notice it. He’s too focused on whatever he’s looking for._

_When he finally locates the subject of his search, he yanks it out with a force that rips your front apart. He holds it up in hands soaked in your blood. And as he marvels at it, your screams die away, replaced with a new kind of wailing…_

It’s a little overly dramatic in Sans’ opinion. It’s not like a Caesarean section is the end of the world. He can tolerate the sight of another scar on your body if it means getting the job of childbirth done without unnecessary modifications to your body’s structure.

Really, he’s thinking about what’s in your best interests.

Strict diet and exercise will get rid of the chub after the little bundle of joy is born.

_it’d be a crime to ruin that lovely, tight pussy by stretching it out._

Still, he holds you as you tremble, pushing as much reassurance from his soul into yours as he can muster.

Not wearing a condom or pulling out during your ceremony consummation had been an oversight brought on by being blinded by the sheer euphoria that came from knowing that he was _finally_ living out his deepest fantasies being with you intimately. But impregnating you is quickly turning into one of those accidents that feels more like a blessing in disguise than a true curse.

Your soul is just a fraction of what powers you; you also have those pesky bodily systems that limit you. But if bonding souls has the capacity to magnify your abilities to the extent he’d seen at the debate, imagine what a being made solely of a combination of his magic and yours would be capable of?

_it would be unstoppable…_

As if his thought was spoken aloud, you let out a cry, hurtling out of your dream.

Your eyes shoot open, but they’re unseeing in your delirium. As your body jerks, Sans tightens his grip. It’s more to ensure you don’t hurt yourself than for comfort. The first night you had a night terror, your limbs had thrashed so violently, you’d nearly smashed your fists into your stomach.

“it’s alright, sweetheart. you’re okay. i’m right here.”

It takes a few minutes, but finally, after a long shudder, he gets a few blinks out of you. Followed by a response in the form of a shaky whisper. “Sans? Did I wake you up?”

_even when you’re in pain, you’re thinking of him first._

_you’re such a sweet and considerate little mate…_

“nah,” he lies, brushing a bead of sweat off your forehead. “i was already awake. was thinking about where we’re gonna set up the little one’s room. we might have to build an addition onto the house.”

He doesn’t miss how your eyes fall when he mentions the tadpole-shaped creature swimming inside of you. It makes his soul ache, but he reminds himself not to get discouraged.

Admittedly, as marvelous as adding a new addition to the family is, it’s a little scary too. Which is why Sans is trying not to resent you for the fact you haven’t shown any obvious signs of excitement yet. For now, he has enough for the both of you. But that hasn’t stopped him from dropping subtle mentions of the developing embryo into every conversation he has with you. To instill the possibility of anticipation into you. 

“go back to sleep, sweetheart. we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

You fall back to sleep before your head even finishes returning to rest on his shoulder. As your body contorts to fit against his side, Sans takes a moment to admire the fact that you can function at all.

Nine months of disarray. Technically seven now, considering you’re approximately seven weeks along. By the end of it, all of the unpleasantness and wear on you will have culminated into sheer perfection. And he’s confident, that eventually acceptance will dawn and you’ll come around.

Right now, it’s so small, you can’t even feel it. But once the flutters morph into kicks, when your stomach is fat with life and Sans can use his magic to show you what it looks like, you’ll come around. All of your nervousness will disappear and be replaced with love.

The wait will be long. But he’ll pass the time ensuring nothing goes wrong. Whatever it takes.

**_anything_ **

Already, the part of his soul that he’d unknowingly donated pulls at what remains in his chest cavity. Increasing his drive to guard, to hide, to _protect_ …

_he’s **never** going to lose you…_

***

Three weeks of investigative work and plotting, and now Sans is ready to start disposing of the remnants of your past.

It was a simple matter of using the void to sneak into the university administration office to find their personal details. Then locating their addresses and discretely following them around to formulate the best plan of action. An addictive mix of exhilaration and adrenaline powered Sans through it, and helped the time feel like it was passing much faster.

_it wasn’t as fun as when he’d done it with you though…_

You won’t know Sans is missing from your bed tonight. You hadn’t even tasted the sedative he slipped into your drink during dinner. He knows he promised he wouldn’t do it again, but measures had to be taken to ensure you’ll sleep the entire night undisturbed. Without dreaming.

Sans wouldn’t be able to do this if his concentration was interrupted by the worries of your subconscious.

_he’s not breaking the contract, because you don’t consider them friends anymore._

The one with the purple soul, Amy, was almost too easy. All it took was one sharp strike with a bone through her sleeping body.

Now Sans stands in a trailer in an inconspicuous trailer park. The battered front door hadn’t even been locked. Upon entrance, the smell of stale smoke hit first, followed by the sight of empty bottles on the floor and on top of the counters. 

Then, the drunken slurring.

“I’m sorry _(y/n)_. I’m so sorry. I should have been a better friend…”

Following the sound, he finds your second female companion slumped on the floor in front of her refrigerator.

_pitiful._

Sans almost doesn’t want to waste a joke on her.

“well this is a _cold_ greeting.”

At the sound of Sans’ voice, the girl (Jessie, you used to call her Jessie) jerks her head up. But as soon as her haunted eyes see him, a dismayed moan leaves her.

“No….you’re not real…”

An evil grin splits across Sans’ face, as the light in his socket casts her in blood-red light. “believe me, i’m real.”

Jessie shakes her head, murmuring. “Why can’t she leave me alone? Even in death I see her. She’s gone, and it’s all my fault…I should have done more…God, why didn’t I do more?”

Sans chuckles, and with a flick of his wrist, pins her in her place. Her head slams against the steel door of the fridge, and her eyes bulge as the magic begins to collapse her trachea. “if you really want to make it up to her, human, i have the perfect solution...”

The experience of suffocation is slow. Sans deliberately draws it out to watch her attempt and fail to struggle. Her ruby soul expands with the effort to act, but Sans rips it out of her chest with no effort and pockets it.

“you can _meet your maker_.”

Jessie’s breathing is nothing but wheezes. “Are you the devil?”

Sans scoffs. What a ridiculous notion. There’s a lot of things he is; demon is not one of them.

_monster._

_father._

_and most importantly…_

As Jessie’s eyes roll back in her head, Sans whispers in her ear. “no, human. i’m something stronger.”

**_soulmate._ **

***

Sans breaks the news to you delicately.

“it was for the best, sweetheart. i couldn’t risk them bringing trouble. not when we’ve got so much to lose now.”

He speaks slowly, using the kind of tone one reserves for sensitive subjects. There are certain details he chooses not to divulge. Like how it had been your social media account that helped him uncover their full names, the first clue he’d needed in his investigation.

How when Jessie’s body had gone slack, her fist had opened to reveal your crumpled and torn obituary article.

He needn’t have been concerned though. You barely bat an eye.

Sans refuses to believe it’s because you’re still groggy. These people are still in your memories, but you don’t dwell on them as much as you used to. You must be starting to realize how useless they were. How little they could offer you.

He offers up Jessie’s soul to you. Before he can even come up with an excuse for having it, its crimson hue turns smoky, and it dies.

 _you’re learning._

“What…what about…?” You bite your lip, but Sans knows exactly who you are thinking of. Someone you still seem to have a fragment of attachment to. In the initial search, he’d been the first person Sans had wanted to find.

But Andrew was proving to be a challenge. His school file indicated he had indeed taken a leave of absence like he had mentioned doing to Sans. But when Sans had located the address the school had on file for him, he found it to be empty. He hasn’t been able to locate an updated change of address. He’d even inquired at Grillby’s, and been informed that the slippery bastard had stopped coming by the bar for his usual.

_so much for his regret…_

Sans checks his phone again to see if maybe he’s decided to make a social media update. But his most recent post is still one from months ago, back in December.

Maybe Papyrus has heard something through the grapevine. As he exits the social media app and clicks on the one for his phone calls and messages, the numbers and letters become glitchy and unreadable. Rainbow colored pixels dot the screen.

Sans turns the device off and shoves it into his pocket. _stupid thing._

_it’s been doing that a lot recently…_

“seems like he’s forgotten all about you, sweetheart. moved on, just like the rest of them should have.” Sans’ eyelights darken. “that doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Your response is immediate. “No! No, I’m glad he’s gone. I love you, Sans.”

His soul thrums at your response. _perhaps that attachment is starting to fray as well…_

He’s so pleased that he rewards you with the paints he’s been holding onto. He loves watching as your eyes light up. The way you carefully run your fingers through the delicate fibers on the brushes and across the tubes of carefully formulated pigment.

_you’re happy._

_he made you happy._

When you finally select a brush, you grip the handle so tightly, it’s like you’re afraid if you let go, it’ll disappear in a pouf of smoke. Just like those souls had.

You squeeze a drop of yellow onto the palette and wet your brush before dipping it into the color. But rather than press it to one of the blank canvases, you turn towards Sans. The bristles tickle as they stroke along the inner side of his ulna.

Sans follows suit, taking the tube of blue. Rather than using a brush, he puts the color on his phalange. When he lifts your shirt and smears it across your stomach, the tiniest of smiles breaks on your face.

_he made you smile._

That’s all the encouragement Sans needs to kiss you.

One leads to two.

After the fifth time, you grab Sans’ humerus, and he expects you to tell him to stop.

But rather than turning away…

You pull him _closer_.

_you **want** him closer. _

By the time dawn breaks, he’s helped you create a different kind of masterpiece than what you were probably originally planning, and his soul is brimming with unbridled joy.

_finally…_

_finally it’s getting a little easier to breathe…_

***

“Why haven’t we gone home yet?”

The sheets you’re lying in are still stained with paint days later. At the top of your hairline, there’s a bit of crusted green that hadn’t gotten washed away in the shower.

Your question is innocent enough. But still, at the reminder, Sans grits his teeth together so tightly, they risk cracking.

This was supposed to be a quick thing. Get out, improve your mood by allowing you to do one good deed, and everything would go back to normal.

He hadn’t counted on the storm of events that would follow.

Finally, Sans forces his jaw to unclench enough to spit out, “why? has someone been bothering you?”

It seems word is spreading amongst the monsters regarding what you did at the debate. Monsters who weren’t even there are coming to the safe house to find out if you truly exist. They’re travelling from all over the country, souls desperate to get even just a taste of being in the presence of your power.

Of course the protective measures to keep you safe are still in place. He still refuses to allow you to leave your room unless it’s absolutely necessary, and no one is allowed to enter without his explicit permission.

The times he’s been around to supervise, he’s been proud of how you react, shying away and avoiding eye contact. But if someone tried something…

Quickly you shake your head. “No, no! It’s weird when they stare at me from the doorway. But they’re all following the rules.” Your cheeks flush a bright crimson. “A couple left presents again…they’re still by the door.”

“i’ll get rid of them.” That’s becoming another common occurrence. Along with their prying eyes, monsters bring offerings to thank you for what you did. You never touch them, and Sans is all too happy to dispose of them. He can take care of you just fine by himself. You don’t need their handouts.

They even have a name for you. Avenging Angel of the Underground.

Sans _hates_ it.

You’re not some masked vigilante, or a goddess reigning down righteous punishments on those who deserve it. You’re his _soulmate_. No more, no less. The only reason you did anything was because of him.

The sound of you thanking him pulls Sans out of his fuming and back to the present matter at hand. “you haven’t answered my question. why do you want to know, sweetheart?”

You bite your lip and shrug, looking back down at the sketch of Sans’ hand that you’d been in the process of shading. “We’ve been away for almost a month now. I just thought maybe you’d want to be back at the cabin.”

You’re not wrong. Underground, it was instilled in Sans that when one comes across something valuable, the most reasonable thing to do is hoard it. To share is to set yourself up for failure. Your pregnancy is no help with that.

Toriel insists if you’re hidden away where no one can find you, you’ll only be considered a legend. Having you closer and more accessible will boost morale in these dark times. Inspire those who have forgotten what it means to hope.

Deep down, Sans suspects the true reason she wants you to stick around is because of her deep seeded need to mother any creature she deems weaker than her. Toriel always was soft compared to her husband. Asgore always knew when things had to be done, no matter how criminal those things were considered. But as long as she’s not criticizing Sans’ decisions or making any more preposterous suggestions like she did the first night, he’s willing to humor her. As long as you’re still happy with the arrangement.

He turns your question back to you. “do _you_ want to go back?”

Your eyes dart from your page to the balcony. You don’t even realize that in doing so, you’re providing Sans’ answer to your posed question.

Admittedly, when Sans first noticed the platform, he’d been concerned. He’d nearly given in to the temptation to bar the door to ensure you didn’t have any… _accidents_ …But now it’s clear he has nothing to be concerned about.

It’s baffling to Sans how time spent with a simple change of scenery can transform you into an entirely different person. It reminds Sans of how Papyrus reacted when they first emerged on the surface and felt the true sun on their bones, not the artificial light generated by magic and stalactites.

It’s rare not to see you out on the deck with your sketchpad and crayons. Every spare moment, you’re out there, putting color in your cheeks with the increase in sunshine.

He even caught you humming one day.

Sans doesn’t even think you realize you were doing it. It was only thanks to decades of tuning his magic to locate potential prey that he heard it under your breath.

You were swaying in that rocking chair you tended to gravitate towards, hands cupping your stomach. The tune droning from your nose was slow and soothing. Without lyrics, Sans couldn’t identify it, but he suspects it was a lullaby.

Sans knows eventually, he’ll have to cave and force things to go back to normal.

But he’s haunted by the worry of what will happen if he does it too quickly.

“we’ll go back to the cabin when you’re ready. just remember, as long as we’re together, we’re home.”

You nod in understanding. Then, words he never dreamed he’d hear you say.

“Have you started thinking about names yet?”

Sans shakes his head, even though he knows exactly what this child is going to be called. He’s had it planned out for weeks.

The middle name will be a font, as per skeleton tradition.

_maybe you can help choose that._

As for the first name…

_it’s a good thing you have a gender-neutral name._

But still, he humors you and listens as you list off names that you’re fond of.

He doesn’t want to risk what he has disappearing.

***

Tonight, three days before March begins, a group of humans managed to locate one of Toriel’s safe-houses in another state. They started off chanting outside, demanding that those inside go back to where they came from. A few gained satisfaction at hurling food like eggs and tomatoes and watching it splatter against the front door and the siding.

Then someone hurled a firecracker through a window.

In all of the confusion, many monsters were seriously injured. Two died.

One of them was a child.

After being in hiding, it’s come out that the candidate for the Liberty Party wants to hold a press conference to comment on recent events. It’s scheduled for the first day of the month.

Your birthday.

Of course, you manage to hear about it.

“Take me,” you beg Sans as he’s trying to get you ready for bed. “I need to be there. I’m strong enough, I swear.”

Until now, you’ve hardly asked for anything. Almost like you were saving up because you knew how monumentally giant this request would be.

As he’s drawing the shades, Sans hesitates. He could say no. He’s said no to you before. But this time, it feels like if he does, he’ll be making a horrible mistake.

“I’ll remember the rules. Just like last time.” Your voice comes out more confident and assured from behind him. “Please Sans, I _have_ to do this. Then I’ll be ready to go home.”

Sans deliberately avoids your face, knowing as soon as he meets those puppy dog eyes, he’ll cave.

For so long, he’s felt like he’s been dancing on eggshells. He doesn’t feel like that anymore. You’re finally settling.

This is the last obstacle that needs to be dealt with. Why not let you be the one to tackle it?

_you love him._

_you’ll do anything for him._

If all goes well, this could be the final piece to reinforce your acceptance.

After this is over, everything will be perfect.

_perfect._

_~~but if something goes wrong~~ _ _…._

Nothing will go wrong. Sans will make sure of it.

So, despite the burning instinct to deny, deny, deny, Sans takes a risk. A running leap of faith.

_sometimes doing whatever it takes means doing things you don’t want to do._

He’s done a lot to get this far. He’s lied. He’s killed. But this could be his biggest sacrifice of all…

“okay, sweetheart…”

“i trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/End Notes: Stalking, mentions of prejudice, graphic violence and murder (Bodily mutilation in Y/N's dream, suffocation, arson), emotional/psychological manipulation/abuse, allusion to dub-con sex (Which is more like non-consensual considering Y/N's mind state)
> 
> If you have any feedback regarding this chapter, I would love to hear it. Thank you so much for reading.  
> I hope you are all continuing to stay safe and healthy during this time. <3


	26. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fine. Everything is fine...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is a little late; this past week has been a series of ups and downs for me, and as a result, I was feeling a little burned out. I hope you understand. This is a longer chapter; hopefully that makes up for it. 
> 
> Not a lot of warnings for this chapter, but I'll leave the ones there are in the End Notes as always. 
> 
> Thank you for your support with this story; it means the world to me and brightens my days, especially with everything going on. You are all wonderful. I cannot wait to read and respond to your comments for this chapter! This one's a bit of a doozy... <3

Despite your sleep cycle being constantly interrupted last night with required bathroom trips, when the first light of morning tickles your eyelids, you push yourself awake.

Fatigue rears its ugly head, trying to coax you back into slumber, but you fight the temptation.

Today is not a day to hide away in bed. That would be the biggest mistake of your life.

Hoisting yourself into a sitting position, you arch your back, biting back a groan as your joints crack, and your body struggles to catch up with what your brain is instructing it to do. Everything feels sluggish, and that always-present queasiness battles with the heartburn over what’s going to be more disruptive today.

But no matter how bad it gets, you vow that you’re going to push through. You’ll act so normal, your body will be ignorant to the existence of its problems. It’ll be like nothing’s wrong at all. You’re not going to give Sans a single reason to make him second-guess the decision he made. 

You’re good at ~~tricking~~ convincing those around you.

Speaking of Sans, he isn’t beside you.

A quick glance around reveals he’s not even in the room. With everything he’s been up to lately, this shouldn’t be odd, but you thought he would have been there, waiting to start your day with some spirited bedroom activity.

Maybe he’s saving that for later. He probably doesn’t want to overtire you before the main event of the day.

Through the slightly propped open balcony door, a smell makes its way to your nose. While most probably wouldn’t notice it, your senses are especially heightened right now.

Acrid, with a hint of chemical residue.

Is that smoke?

Heart racing, you go to the door and peer through the glass. Far away in the distance, a tanker passes through the waters, spouting exhaust.

Diesel exhaust. No fire.

You know the reason you got so nervous is because you can’t get the news reports out of your head. There’s so much wrong going on in the world. So many innocent lives being destroyed and, in too many cases, lost.

Doing something about it is more important than worrying about your problems. After living amongst them for so long, you can’t imagine considering monsters inferior to humans.

All they want is the hope of a new beginning. ~~You can relate to that~~. What’s happening to them is abominable, and those responsible must be held accountable.

But if the last debate is any indication of the world’s standing on this issue, then whoever’s speaking at today’s press conference will probably find some way to spin it so the monsters are to blame.

There will be no punishment. No apology to those who are grieving. All it will do is churn out more empty-minded bigots who believe they rule the world.

It’ll be the start of the next war against humans and monsters.

Not unless you do something about it.

The monsters are _relying_ on you to do something about it.

You fold your hands across your chest, knowing your soul’s steady beat is right beneath your fingers. It’s the answer to all of their prayers.

How many times in the past did you act not knowing you could have done more? Despite the initial terror that came from the unknown, the last time had been a real eye opener. All this time, you’ve had no grasp of the full potential of your ability. Now, you delight in the anticipation of crushing those disgusting, insufferable fools like ants under your feet.

Maybe you’ll drag it out a little longer than necessary. Prolong the agony so that the message is made clear to everyone watching:

 _No one_ is safe if they try to mess with the monsters. 

And Sans…his words have been replaying in your mind ever since they left his mouth.

He trusts you to do this.

He _trusts_ you.

Maybe that’s why you feel different today. Not just older, but not really wiser. Just…different.

Your first stop is the bathroom, to rinse the residual taste of morning breath and vomit away. After giving your face a few good splashes under the cold water, you linger. Staring in the mirror to see if this strange sensation under your skin is coming out in how you look.

Beyond the slightest of slumps in your stomach region when you lift your nightshirt, you haven’t undergone any grand physical transformations. You haven’t sprouted horns. Taking everything into consideration, your appearance really hasn’t changed. Yet if you look too close, you start to notice distortion in your reflection. It doesn’t match the view of yourself that comes from your soul.

Speaking of soul, it’s still cracked. If today serves as the official end of some sort of rebirth, shouldn’t those have healed by now?

It’s fine. Nothing to worry about.

This is just what happens. All of that work and effort to better yourself is coming together. Just as you wanted. It’s a slow process, but by the end of today it’ll be complete. The disjoint will be a long forgotten memory.

Suddenly it feels like someone’s wrapped a rubber band around the top of your head and is pulling it as tight as it can go. The growing tension headache grabs your attention away from meaningless concerns. There are more important things to worry about than dull hair color, or how bright your eyes are.

There’s something inside of you draining all of your energy; of course that’s going to steal the light from behind your eyes.

But you’re not bitter. You’re fine.

Everything is fine.

You wring out a face towel and drape it around the back of your neck before resuming your daily morning routine. What you look like really doesn’t matter; you’ll have to chameleon yourself to leave the house anyway. But after years of repetition, it’s pure instinct to focus on making your undisguised self presentable. But your hairbrush is missing from beside the sink.

You check the cupboards and drawers of the vanity to no avail. There’s really not many places it could be; yet the longer you search for, the more hidden it seems to become. While your fingers would work just as well, you can’t bring yourself to start untangling your hair in front of the glass of the mirror.

Did Bones knock it off the sink counter? Your knees protest as you carefully kneel on the tiled floor to check the gaps between the vanity and the bathroom walls. You’ve heard passing comments from other monsters in the house mention that she’s determined to treat anything that’s not nailed down in its place as her own personal toys.

Sans was ~~angry~~ annoyed when you first told him you wouldn’t be able to clean her litter box. But once you explained that it was a health risk, he took it very seriously. Now he’s even being strict about restricting the amount of time you can play with her. You’re only allowed half an hour a day, and even then, he doesn’t allow you to nuzzle and cuddle her the way you’d like to. It’s ~~a bit much~~ sweet that he’s concerned.

Poor thing’s probably restless being cooped up inside all day. Not that you know the feeling.

With your lockdown, you’re not sure how or when she would have been able to sneak into the bedroom and then leave without being caught. But then again, she is a cat. Cats are good at being sneaky. You ~~admire~~ hate that.

A light tapping at the bathroom door startles you, and you almost bash your head on the rim of the counter. The door swings open and Toriel comes into view; her face brightens when it lands on you. You don’t smile back.

“Ah, good morning, my child! Sans is in the kitchen, preparing your meal. He asked me to come up and see if you needed any assistance.”

She’s holding your lost hairbrush and notices you staring at it. “Sans was concerned about the amount of hair collecting in the bristles. I assured him that it was merely due to hormonal imbalance. Things will start to even out later in this process. You’ll even notice it getting thicker.”

 _Oh boy_. You can hardly contain your excitement.

Toriel extends a paw to help you up, but you don’t take it. If she gets any glimmer of concern, you don’t doubt she’ll go running to Sans, and everything will be cancelled.

Once you’re back on your feet, you follow her out into the bedroom again. By the main door, there’s a suitcase, and she moves to pick it up. When she walks, it bumps against her side. A further reminder that this is the last day you’ll be spending here. You don’t know when or if Sans will ever consider coming back.

All good things must come to an end.

Toriel sets the luggage carrier down on the bed, but when she pops it open, an idea comes to you. You pipe up before she can start working on filling it.

Just because today is the end of a chapter doesn’t mean it needs to be rushed.

“I can do that later. Maybe…could you brush my hair?”

Toriel stills, and at first you wonder if she’s going to refuse. But eventually, she gives a slow, shaky nod. “I…I would be honored, my child.”

You plop yourself in the rocking chair, and Toriel comes behind you. She adjusts the cold compress on the back of your neck. Then, very carefully, as though she’s handling porcelain, she parts your hair down the middle.

When she places the head of the brush against your scalp, and drags it down, it feels better than you expected it to. Each stroke has enough force to attack the tangles, but is careful enough that she’s not ripping chunks out. As the built up stress in your body escapes at the end of each, you sigh.

“You’ve obviously done this before.”

Toriel gives an airy laugh. “You’re much better at sitting still than my son was. Oh, how he used to fuss. You remind me more of my second child though…”

As her voice trails off, you realize what a mistake you’ve made in your attempt at making a joke. Your face pales.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Toriel pauses the brushing. Her reassuring squeeze of your shoulder cuts off your sentence. “Please, do not censor yourself for fear of damaging my feelings. My grief is a part of me that I have learned to live with.”

The tips of her claws graze the brand on your collarbone, and you struggle with what to say next. That’s so commendable. Finally, something comes to mind.

“How did you do it?”

It’s a pointless question. You don’t need to know. It’s not like you have anything to grieve. Everything important to you is inside this house, and will be coming with when you leave. But Toriel hums to herself as she works through a particularly tricky section of hair, and you find yourself waiting for her answer.

“Did you know that when I first emerged on the surface, I wanted to be a teacher?”

You lean your head back enough to see her chin, but even just that slight movement causes the rocking chair to tilt. Toriel sticks a foot under one of the runners, bringing the teetering to a halt.

She ties your hair in a ponytail, and then separates the tail into three sections to braid. “Even without the restrictions placed on monsters, it wouldn’t have worked out. After my husband died, the monsters turned to me to be their leader. Sometimes the world puts our dreams on hold. I suppose when that happens, all we can do is learn to adapt. I’m sure you understand.”

Do you?

Toriel finishes braiding, and then folds the tail, slipping it through a hole in the hair made above the black tie she used to hold your hair together. Then she directs you back to the bathroom mirror and holds a hand-mirror from behind to allow you to see the finished bun.

It’s intricate. Divine. It makes you feel like the angel the monsters know you as.

It’s too bad that it’ll have to be hidden under a wig cap.

“Wow, this is really beautiful.” You turn and hug Toriel in thanks. “When… _it_ …arrives, I’ll ask Sans to invite you to visit. You could probably give me a lot of good pointers.”

“No, my child. I’m afraid today will be the last you see of me.”

You jerk back in shock. “What? But why?”

Toriel smiles sadly. “You asked me how I live with my grief. The most important part of it was learning how to say goodbye. Accepting that there are times when the best way to help myself is by letting go. This is one of those times.”

“But what if I need your help?” You can’t help but glance down at your stomach. “What if I screw up? I don’t know what to do!”

Of course you’ll have Sans tending to you, using books and access to other information. But there’s so many contradicting sources, and literature is never the same as living in the moment. And, ~~you’re going to miss her; you’re so tired of losing people~~ obviously, he’ll never be the one in your exact position.

Toriel grabs your hands and shushes you. “Do you want to know a secret? In truth, most of the time I was raising my children, I did not know either.” She pauses to consider. “But during that blessed time, I came to realize taking care of others isn’t necessarily about doing everything correctly. It’s about the intention behind what you do.”

While you’re processing, she steps back. “You have duties to tend to. I shall inform Sans that you will be down shortly.” She doesn’t wait for a response, but before she closes the door, she leaves you with one final well wish.

“Oh, and happy birthday.”

Somehow, being alone again makes it even harder to think. In losing her old family, Toriel learned to build one with those she surrounded herself with.

Was that what you were doing? Training your mind to accept the requirement of replacing your dreams?

It doesn’t feel quite the same…

Are your new upcoming roles the reason your reflection seems so mismatched?

Breathe. You have to remember to breathe. You’re overthinking everything. You can’t let yourself get worked up. Not today.

It’s a simple list of tasks. Crush the hearts. Go back to the cabin and live out your days with Sans. Tend to his every whim. 

Everything is fine. It will all work out the way it’s meant to.

There’s a process to selecting your day’s outfit. As much as you’d like to get dressed up for your birthday, you have to think more practically. No dresses, and your shoes must be sturdy, in case you need to leave quickly. The only fancy things you allow yourself are the bits of jewelry from Sans, and those have to be connected as loosely as the chain links will go to prevent them from cutting off circulation.

Even though it’s warm out, you must cover as much skin as possible without overheating. All the colors must be dull and muted; your favorite neon shades are not even a consideration. They’re too bright. It risks being noticed.

You find yourself second guessing and then third guessing until you force yourself to settle on a final decision. Your bottoms are sweatpants with a stretchy waistband, the top a maternity t-shirt you still have room to grow into. You don’t dare peek at what it looks like in the mirror. This is more than a simple outfit; this is a uniform.

Will Sans be proud of your choices? Will he still think you’re beautiful in this?

You suppose you’ll find out.

Everything else of yours needs to get packed away. You start with the first bin in the chest of drawers she had let you use.

At first glance, all that’s inside is undergarments and socks. As you move to scoop up an armful, something buried at the very bottom grazes the pads of your fingers. It’s smooth, and rectangular, with a sheen of glass on top.

A photo frame.

Why is this one not up on the wall with the rest?

When you pull it out, the entire picture becomes clear.

It’s….

A human?

Your gaze drifts to the family portrait on the wall, specifically to the space beside the youngest goat. Upon closer inspection, you see he’s not standing beside a flower bush. There’s someone else beside him, holding the flowers in front of their face.

Sans’ argument with Toriel comes back to mind. His use of the plural form of ‘kids.’

Toriel’s second child was a human? Was that why she said you reminded her of them?

They look so familiar…

That’s not all. There’s something taped to the back of the frame. Turning it around, you smooth out a folded square into a larger, wrinkled picture.

A compass rose is drawn out at the top. Runs of lines made up of variously colored dashes crisscross all over the paper. There are black squares with a multitude of symbols inside of them; each one’s meaning identified by the legend on the bottom. Blue blotches are labelled as various waterbodies. You recognize the name of one of them, but the title blatantly printed on the map confirms your suspicions.

It’s the park that you ~~and Amy and Jessie~~ had gone camping at. During that one summer that feels so long ago.

One of the trails is highlighted. On the far right side, in scribbled cursive, you can barely make out a set of instructions.

  * _Follow until second outhouse. Image of Echo Flower on the door._
  * _Break off path. Walk due north until fifty paces past park boundary line. Continue for 5K, then turn west._
  * _If lost call or look for trees marked with yellow flagging tape._



Have you been so close to your old life all this time? Your soul skips a beat, and you drop the frame. As it hits the ground, the glass shatters.

Oh no. Bad. Very bad. If Sans comes up and sees this, he won’t take you. Everything will be ruined.

Wrapping your hand in the rag you’d been using around your neck, you crouch, frantically sweeping bits of damaged frame under the bed. The back of it catches on a floorboard, ripping the map free.

What should you do? Put it back? Hide it with the glass under the bed?

You started off today feeling so sure of yourself. In a span of time shorter than an hour, the confidence has been completely shot down. You wish the being in the photograph could speak to you now, share their secrets. How could someone who looks like they wielded a considerable amount of power have been taken down? Maybe they put their trust in someone they shouldn’t have. Someone who couldn’t handle the pressure of doing what had to be done.

You can handle it. You _have_ to be able to handle it.

There’s a rustle at the balcony door, and you look up expecting to see an unexpected gale of wind has pushed it shut. But that’s not it. 

The ghost of the human child is standing in front of it.

Falling backwards on your ass, you yelp. Immediately as the sound escapes, you slap your hand over your mouth to muffle it.

You’re a second too late. Sans’ voice trickles into your head, laced with concern.

“ _sweetheart? everything okay up there_?”

The child whips a solitary finger against their lips. As though they hear him as well as you do.

The balcony doesn’t have stairs built alongside it. Not even a ladder attachment. Their soul burns a devilish red under their striped sweater. Did breaking the frame unleash some sort of magical monster curse? 

Knuckles white, you force out your answer in the most normal-sounding tone your overworking limbic system can muster.

“ _I just saw a spider_. _I’m fine; just need a few more minutes_.”

By the time you remember how to breathe again, Sans hasn’t teleported into the room, which seems to indicate he bought it. For now. Fervently praying the story will continue to be convincing, you ensure the bedroom door is closed anyway.

Not locked though.

“How did you get up here?” The question comes out a strangled whisper. “Past Sans and Toriel?”

The minor blinks, but still does not speak. As they turn around and step further out onto the balcony, their footsteps make no sound. Dumbfounded, you follow.

Striped shirt. Bushy dark hair. The sepia tones of the photo make distinguishing specific colors impossible, but at first glance, this is exactly who you were just looking at. But as they get closer, subtle differences appear. The human whose image is frozen in time has eyes that are wide open to the world around them. Their face is painted with a crooked smile that dares anyone who glances their way to underestimate them.

This apparition’s visage is a blank slate. Absolutely expressionless.

Is this some sort of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing? A doppelganger situation? Your soul flares with recognition as you stand. You _know_ you’ve seen them before. But when? Where?

“What do you want?”

Your questions aren’t getting any reaction out of them. The ghost only pauses when their gaze locks onto something you haven’t gotten the chance to pack yet. Your sketchpad.

Open to the newest of your pieces, the page reveals an anatomically accurate illustration of a heart. While the organ itself has not been filled in yet, it bleeds a rainbow of colors. The seepage pools underneath, mixing like an oil puddle. Trapped behind the bars of a birdcage, its wings, a touch you added as a last-minute thought, are extended mid-flap.

“It’s just a picture. It doesn’t mean anything.”

The child blinks. Then, ever so casually, they stretch out an arm towards the box of crayons sitting beside the sketchbook. Slowly. Tauntingly.

Just as their hand makes contact with the lid, you slam your hand down on top of it. “ _Don’t._ ”

Finally, they show some emotion. Your blood runs cold as the hint of a smile lifts the corner of their mouth. As if by acting so defensively, you’ve confirmed what they already know.

Even Sans hasn’t figured out why you’ve been so insistent on using crayons rather than paints, or the other fancier equipment he gave you…

A ghost shouldn’t be able to make physical contact, should it? You pull your hand back as if you’ve been burned.

“Who are you?”

The child’s expression returns to that stoic stare, but thankfully, their hand retreats from the box as well. They dig into a pants pocket and when they pull it out, their fingers are folded up. Their second hand flips so their palm is open, and they indicate you should do the same.

Dazed, you follow their movement and watch as they hold their hand above yours. The closed fist splits open.

Something drops into your open palm. You barely even feel it make contact. This doesn’t feel real.

Then they run and take a flying leap over the side of the balcony.

“No!”

Your heart drops as you tear to the ledge and lean over, dreading the sound of flesh hitting water.

There’s nothing. Not even the last remnants of a splash. The waves still break and ebb in their usual pattern.

Are you going insane?

Something stabs the callused skin of your palm. When you inspect, you see it’s a round enamel pin, with an outline of a red heart in the middle. Inside the heart are two words:

STAY DETERMINED!

Well, you’d been asking for a sign. This isn’t exactly what you’d been expecting, but you suppose you’ll have to take it.

Get it together. This is fine. Everything is fine.

This time, when you go inside, you take your art supplies as well. It takes minimal effort to slip on your cap, wig, and contact lenses. The pin is zipped up into your pocket, along with the map.

You should take that with you, right? Sans wouldn’t like it if another monster somehow got ahold of this and used it to find you without his permission.

There’s only one final touch to make…

Taking a breath, you tip the crayon box upside down. The rolled up bits of wax tumble to the bottom of the case.

Along with the vial of magic dust.

The cork pops easily, unleashing a cloud into the air that smells faintly of chalk. You can’t explain why you decided to hold onto it instead of throwing it into the ocean. ~~Or why you kept it a secret~~. The box was the best way to ensure that it didn’t break accidentally

Sans will understand why you’re using it. If you want to remain discrete while out in public, what better way to ensure you’re invisible than blocking your soul from other monsters? You’ll be beside him at all times; he won’t even notice the difference. It’s not like he’ll lose you.

When you dump the vial on top of your head and your soul goes cloudy, it’s not relief blooming in your heart. It’s a new bout of energy to keep you going.

You’re just being responsible and doing what you can contribute to ensure the change to your new role goes smoothly. Nothing’s going to stop you now.

When you close the bedroom door for the very last time, you’re also closing this chapter of your life.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

***

Is it a bad thing that you’re used to the sight of blood on Sans’ hands?

“there you are. was starting to wonder if i needed to check up on you.”

“Sorry I took so long.” You lean against the counter. The kitchen reeks of fat, onion, and black pepper. “What are you making?”

“blood sausage.” Sans is stirring a pot on the stove. “this was considered a rare delicacy when we were underground.”

You move to peer over to look inside and immediately wish you hadn’t. The mush inside looks positively vile. It’s so dark red, it’s nearly black, with a few bubbles at the surface. Despite your best efforts, your nose wrinkles at the iron odor.

The first word of the meal’s name sticks in your head. What kind of animal did he get it from?

Was it even an animal?

Sans laughs at your obvious discomfort. “it’s from a pig, sweetheart. i learned my lesson with Papyrus’ spaghetti. your taste isn’t quite as refined as mine yet. but i wanted to treat you.”

Yet. That suggests it’s in the process of improving. Maybe that’s part of why you don’t feel like you match your reflection. Improving? Would that be an appropriate word to describe what you’re in the midst of?

There’s no time for an identity crisis. This is fine. Everything is fine.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sans hums in contemplation. “the batch i made yesterday is what we’ll have for breakfast. this one is for tomorrow. i haven’t added any seasonings yet. wanna pick out a few?” He jerks his head to the right. “they’re in that cupboard over there.”

Eager to keep your mind occupied, you move and start to inspect the assortment of spices, herbs, and extracts Toriel owns. Even with the bags and bottles sealed, they battle for dominance in your nasal cavities. But you don’t mind these clashing scents. You enjoy seasonings. The variety of seeds, leaves, powders, and other forms they come in. The careful process that goes into selecting both the right types and amounts to ensure the meal comes together. With all of its palettes equally balanced.

It kind of reminds you of painting. Or how you used to use your powers.

“maybe look for some parsley. you know, like the first time you cooked for me.” Sans laughs heartily. “you remember, sweetheart? when you tried to poison me?”

It’s something you think about a lot actually. Your head gives another painful throb, and you force yourself to ignore it.

“it was a rocky start. i’ll admit, there were times i didn’t think we’d make it. but look at us now.”

Look, indeed. Who knew such simple tasks would be what it took to guarantee the promise of a future? ~~Deep down, something still feels wrong~~. Keep your head down. Speak when spoken to. Do as you’re told.

It’s a much quieter process than one might have imagined.

“it’s gonna be good to be back where we belong. hope this time away hasn’t made you forget how to clean; the house is gonna be really dusty.”

Even with the powder protecting your soul, his words manage to send a jab directly in its center. It is hard knowing that after today, you’ll have to watch the world change through your television screen. Hidden away in your dollhouse, the one place where it could be scientifically proven that it’s possible for time to grow stagnant. But if this is the destiny fate has assigned you, who are you to argue with it? This is an important role, and you’re privileged to undertake it.

The crumpled map and enamel pin weigh like stones in your pocket.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

You choose not to comment, instead continuing your search of the cupboard. Something minty crawls to the surface of the odor swamp. The source is a packet containing crushed green leaves and a vial of swamp-colored oil. The label on the front shows an illustration of a plant with elliptic leaves and purple tufts of flowers.

While you’re not a botanist by any stretch, you do have a bit of knowledge. Admittedly most of it has been acquired through research to help you in the kitchen. There are only so many ways improvising can make the limited food ingredients Sans provides taste good. While he would probably be content to eat the exact same thing every day of the year, you require variety to keep from going insane.

Pennyroyal. This was mentioned in the cookbook Sans got you for Christmas. As well as being a substitute for mint, it was a popular folk remedy for indigestion and headaches, among other things. While not a common choice anymore, something about it speaks to you. It calls to your olfactory system. Beckoning. Tantalizing.

You pull the bagged form of the plant out and pass it to Sans, leaving the vial. “This one.”

He takes it and thoroughly stirs the clumps of dry herb into the gore. Then, once it’s properly mixed, he carefully funnels it into a slimy casing, which he later ties into sections. You watch every step carefully.

Once he’s placed his latest creation into a water-bath that will allow it to cook for the day, Sans urges you to have a seat at the table. There’s a plate meant for you, with kiwi slices and fried eggs. Black discs not so cleverly hidden under the puddles of white and yolk are presumed to be bits of cooked sausage. He might want you to make this for him one day. You sneak a taste and pray he never does.

Thankfully, Sans doesn’t notice your distaste this time. By the time you’re done eating, there’s still time before you have to leave for the press conference. Sans teleports you back to the bedroom, insisting you don’t need seconds.

“don’t think that i forgot today’s your birthday.” He grins a toothy grin and lays you down on the bed. “close your eyes, and i’ll give you your present.”

When was the last time the instruction ‘close your eyes’ was followed by something positive? Your brand burns in foreboding. But Sans would never hurt you without reason. So you obey.

Sans lifts your shirt just enough to expose your abdomen and shifts your pants slightly. Something wet is squirted underneath your belly button, but when you move to wipe it off, Sans freezes your arms in place.

“hold still, sweetheart, or this isn’t going to work.”

You feel the swell of his magic building around you. It presses down at the same time as Sans’ claws. They creep along your skin, slowly spreading the gel around.

At first, all you can hear is a steady, drawn out whooshing sound. But then, it dies away and is replaced with something else. While this new sound is fainter, it’s much faster. Like a wild, galloping stallion. 

_Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump_ …

“okay, you can open up now.”

When you open your eyes and peer down, you see the second soul in your body, now as large as a green olive. It flickers and flutters quick as a hummingbird. It’s still too small to feel it as it moves, but it’s clear where the sound is coming from.

“Oh my god…”

Has a monster-human hybrid ever been born before? Are you part of the creation of an entirely new species? That adds even more responsibility to an already overflowing plate. In the privacy of your protected mind, you swear to do all in your power to treat it fairly.

That is inside of you. You can’t hate it, not entirely. When did you start getting teary eyed?

“that’s a strong sounding heartbeat right there. our babybones is a little boss monster already, i can tell. and that’s not even the best part!” Sans puffs his ribcage out with pride. “we’re gonna name it after you. little ( _Y/N_ ) Junior. that’s a better present than flowers or a piece of jewelry, right?”

When he removes his hands, he leaves rusty prints spread across your rounded belly, as though your abdomen is part of a brutal crime scene.

The urge to gag is stronger than it’s ever been, more so than when you were just dealing with morning sickness. You thought he’d been listening when you’d brought up the idea of names you liked a few days ago. Echo or Rainbow for a girl, and Serif or Gabriel for a boy.

Oh well. You suppose they were stupid suggestions anyway.

This is fine. Everything is ~~tolerable~~ fine.

You return his smile with one of your own, though admittedly, yours is more timid. “It’s perfect, Sans. Thank you.”

He kisses your cheek with a great big smack, and lingers longer than he needs to. “i’ve got another surprise planned too, but that’s for a little later.”

Ah, there’s the promise of sex you’ve been waiting for. He doesn’t even need to explicitly state it. The cheeky leer says it all. You would have thought he was sick if he forgot to mention it.

Sans nudges you. “your soul’s awfully quiet. something on your mind?”

Oh, nothing. Just the realization that you’re officially abandoning every goal you ever had in the first twenty one years of your life for him. Acknowledging that today you’re completely starting over as someone you don’t even entirely recognize. That’s a totally normal thing that people do, right?

Sans’ blank look confirms he didn’t hear a word of your mental tirade. ~~It’s kind of nice to have a moment of privacy~~. You shouldn’t tell him out loud. It would worry him.

You shrug. “Just making sure I’m in the mind-zone. I know you’ll do everything to make our section of the world safe. I want all the other monsters and their children to have that in the rest of the world. I want them to dance, and sing, and _live_ , while the humans lock themselves up in their homes. They’ll never escape the imprisonment of impending doom.”

Sans grins. “i did good with you. it’s like you’re a whole new woman. completely transformed.”

It’s the animals who are unable to acknowledge the need for change that end up going extinct. And it’s not just changing environment that can force speciation. Transformation can also be necessary when under threat from competition.

Like humans.

The ones you used to know are dead. Figuratively or literally. They have nothing to offer you anymore. Not even the ghosts.

Sans notices the time on your watch and insists it’s time to get going. The sausages get hurriedly cooled and hung to dry in the kitchen. Without even asking if you’ve finished packing, he shoves you into a coat and then grabs you by the hood. 

The word to potentially describe how you feel appears when you and Sans are mid-transport. Surrounded by darkness that promises to take you to every ordained destination.

Not different.

Evolved?

That doesn’t seem so bad.

You arrive just in time. This time, the event is held outside, but still the two of you hide out of sight. You’re somewhat close to the edge of the crowd, but not within mingling distance so as not to arouse suspicion. It also helps to ensure that your view isn’t blocked.

As the organizer is wrapping up his opening remarks, Sans whispers in your ear. “you’ve been so good lately. good behavior deserves a reward. happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“Ỳ̴̗̂͜o̸͈̹̲̎̿͌͜u̶͎̥̒̃͝ ̵̲͍̠̦̤̒͌͂̈́͆ą̸͈̅́͒̆͒r̶̦̥̜̺̍͜͝ē̴̟̟̈́̋̒͝ ̵̛͔̞͊̆́͠m̶̘̖̥̋̔̒a̷̤͕͚̯̖̎͊̕k̷̬̣̠̪̈́͑͒̿͠ĭ̸̬̦͜ṅ̶̢̧͎̩̣̾̿̚ǵ̷͚̺̄ ̶̻̹̠̏̿̚͝ǎ̶͖́ ̴̰͂m̵̛̦̆̌̐̀i̸̥̬̖͈̐s̷͎͉̃̾t̸̹̐a̵̞͇̭̓k̴͉̩̙͊͒̑e̸͔̳̞̼̪͌͂.̶̠̼̱̭̱̽̈”

That did not come from the same ear Sans just whispered into. The echo pops out of nowhere, just as an organizer is announcing the arrival of the candidate of the Liberty Party. You blocked your mind! You thought that included invasions from imaginary voices in your head!

It’s been so long since you last heard that foreboding tone. So already you can barely breathe as you stare down at the couple approaching the microphone. The conflicting voices trying to speak to you at the same time caused you to miss the announcement of the candidate’s name. But even at this distance, you don’t need to see things.

You wish you’re seeing things. You know you’re not.

Everything is _not_ fine.

It’s one of the senators of your old hometown and his wife:

Your parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to call this chapter Familial Bonds, but I'm not sure it fits quite as well. Do people agree? Disagree? I'm curious to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Whether you celebrate the holiday or not, I hope everyone has a lovely Easter weekend, and that you are continuing to stay safe and healthy. <3
> 
> Warnings/Tags: Blood, mentions of death and attempted murder, mentions of symptoms of pregnancy including nausea and vomiting, psychological/emotional abuse


	27. Press Conference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Y/N) is confronted with her parents, and is forced to face actions of past, present and future...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After leaving on that cliffhanger from last time, I'm sorry this one took so long to come out! But here it is! I hope that you will enjoy it!
> 
> End Notes will contain the Warnings and Tags. 
> 
> Thank you very much for your continued support. As always, comments are not required, but they do help motivate me, and I enjoy hearing your thoughts, especially now that the story is nearing the end.

No.

You’re frozen in place, stiff with something stronger than shock. A proper name or term hasn’t been identified for this amalgamation of emotions, and you doubt one ever will be.

This wasn’t possible.

It couldn’t be.

But the palpitations of your soul tell you otherwise. Yes, it could be. And yes, it is.

Your parents.

“sur-priiiise.” Sans draws out the ‘I’ sound in the word. He savors the taste as it leaves his mouth as though it’s music. Looming behind you, when he bends to whisper into your ear, the raw air scalds your skin. “happy birthday sweetheart.”

Large screens are set up on either side of the staircase like one might see at a concert, to allow everyone present a proper viewing experience. This feels like watching the buildup to a brutal murder in a slasher horror film.

Technically, it is. Your purpose for being here is an ember of memory, burning up behind your eyes.

“I…I thought…”

Sans chuckles, a dark sound. “you thought the surprise was something else? something…. _sexual_ , perhaps?” He clicks his tongue between his teeth in mock disapproval. “my goodness, what _would_ your parents think if they found out how much of a sexual deviant you’ve become? wouldn’t that make a pretty story? why don’t we ask them?”

Deep down, you know he wouldn’t dare, but your eyes still burn. Molten liquid clots your bottom lashes. As the doors to the parliament building close behind your parents, the solid ‘thud’ makes you think of a gavel landing a guilty sentence. You can’t explain why.

Sans moves to press a kiss behind your ear. “that’s why i love you, ( _y/n_ ). you’re a goddamn vixen. does it get you wet? the thought of their horrified faces?”

Again, you do nothing. Flinching or shrugging away is not an option, but you’re not in the mood to pretend to be excited by his indecent comments.

You never thought you’d see them again…

“there’ll be plenty of time for that later. somehow, i get the feeling that getting this done first will make it a lot more fun…”

Something solid swells against your backside, reminding you of a terrible truth. For you, the upcoming demise is a necessity. To Sans, it’s foreplay. 

Killing excites him. Despite your souls being fused, you don’t believe you’ll ever understand why.

Maybe you’re not meant to.

The announcer steps back to allow your father to approach the microphone. The explosions of hundreds of camera flashbulbs illuminate his face, bringing attention to the fact that while he is fortunate to show no sign of balding at his age, his stylized mop has more grey than color now.

“But…” Sans’ ribcage vibrates with barely concealed pleasure when you finally attempt to speak. The rumbles passing down your back leave your words jolted and stuttered. It’s a miracle they come out at all. “You…you never met them. How did you…?”

A tightening builds in your chest, cutting off your question. Sans may have been able to learn your relatives were famous senators from your memories. But this is obviously knowledge he didn’t pull from your mind.

“when you needed to get over your little meltdown after the bonding consummation, i stayed at Grillby’s and overheard a news story. i’ve known they were running for office for months.”

Months. He’s been hiding this from you for months.

“Good morning, and thank you to everyone for being here today.”

Immediately after the start of your father’s address, hands rocket up, begging to be noticed so they can ask their burning questions. Your body suddenly feels too heavy to support itself.

“I need to sit down.”

An invisible grip takes hold of your tied up hair under the wig and tugs, hard. Rather than helping to hold you up, Sans starts to drag you off the main walkway, towards a pruned shrub.

A splitting pain tears through the base of your skull. As your head jerks back, a yelp nearly escapes, but a bony hand clamps over your mouth, effectively silencing you. It doesn’t matter. The security personnel are too engrossed in maintaining crowd control, and the crowd is too engrossed in demanding answers.

As the two of you duck behind the towering greenery, your wig starts to slide out of place. Sans doesn’t even seem to notice, barely restraining himself as he shoves you into the carefully clipped branches.

“you don’t like my present? are you trying to back out of this?”

You are an adult. Not only that, today is meant to celebrate the fact that you are now a year older. Yet here you are, cowering as you wait to receive a scolding. Sans has thrown you back to the time of being a child, and you can’t even tell if he’s trying or not.

The hand over your mouth now pinches the sides of your chin, forcing your eyes to lock. His sockets are narrowed with what you pray is just his usual rage and not suspicion. They threaten you with the oversaturated colors of death.

Before you can try to spit out an apology from your forcefully pursed lips, Sans jabs a finger in your face. Flecks of spittle rain down from his teeth. When they land on your face, they sting like acid.

“you’re the one who asked to be here! i could have done this alone, spared myself the trouble of dealing with your shit. but i wanted to be nice. i said i trusted you to give you a chance to prove yourself. do you want me to regret it?”

His own transition from happy and teasing to murderous and punishing is just as seamless. There are no right or wrong answers to what causes it. An action that makes him happy one day can send him spiraling into a mood the very next day. Your overworked brain always feels like it’s on the brink of breaking.

You hate when he gets like this. Especially right now.

You haven’t even _done_ anything.

What’s he going to be like when your child is born? When they cry, entirely dependent on you for assistance? Start trying to understand how the world around them works because they’re curious?

Will the first thing they learn be to fear his volatile temper instead of turn to him for love?

Playing along earlier would have been the safer way to go. He gives you a hard shake when you don’t respond fast enough for him. Branches scratch and tear at your clothes as you push out a feeble whimper. “No!”

It takes a few desperate repeats, but finally he stills. The hand on your face drops, allowing you to push your shoulders straight. You need to reassure him that you can still do this. Without prompting, you meet his eyes with a level gaze. Though still panting, you force the word out more firmly than the first time.

“Nothing’s changed.”

Them being your parents means absolutely nothing.

“no more setbacks,” Sans finally grumbles. He tucks away a strand of blond that slipped out of the cap in the commotion, properly hiding every true bit of you. Then he tugs your synthetic hairpiece back into place. “i’ve waited long enough. this happens today.”

He doesn’t kiss you, or apologize for losing his temper. He just waits expectantly for you to go along with him.

Just once, you’d like to see him break the connection first, watch his eyes dart to the ground. But submission requires that step belongs to you.

“Today.” You nod once, then, before he can inspect you too closely, spin to peer around the edge of the bush.

“let him talk for a little while,” Sans instructs. “the people won’t know whether to allow themselves to get comfortable or stay on alert. i want to watch them squirm as they’re trapped in the torment of uncertainty.”

He’s perfectly calm again, like the last few minutes never even happened. In fact, there’s a hint of sadistic joy in his tone. Even with the hot sun bearing down on you, a shiver runs down your spine.

“Yes Sans.” Your father is in the middle of the answer to a question you didn’t hear. Rather than listen, you focus on your mother.

She stands in her usual place, to your father’s right and just slightly behind. The sea of reporters seated in front of you is a barely controlled frenzy, but in her sapphire cocktail dress, she looks just as poised and controlled as she always strove to be while in the public eye.

Just as you had striven and failed to be moments ago.

“stars, what a freakshow. no matter you turned out the way you did.”

Behind the contact lenses, your eyes are still swimming. Using the side of a fist, you smear the liquid into the heavy bags underneath. But you still can’t bring yourself to blink.

In the time it takes your eyes to close and open again, a scandal can start. Scandals are trouble.

“And once trouble starts, you never know what it’ll build to.” A sickening twinge pulls your heart. While it barely came out as a mumble between your lips, you heard it in your mother’s voice.

Never let your guard down around your enemy. That was the all-encompassing motto that broke off into the specific categories of guidelines you still strove to follow to this day. How many times have you sworn to never let Sans, or any other person see you cry?

Your bottom lip is nearly chewed through from how many times it’s been bitten in the last month alone.

“did you say something, sweetheart?”

Until now, you’d forgotten this had been part of her training when you were young and still adjusting to being in the frontlines of everyone’s attention. Back then, they’d seemed like boring rules. Meant to ensure you didn’t misbehave and tarnish the family name.

Now, with your own child on the way, the coaching almost seems like sage advice, worth passing on.

What if, rather than trinkets that only held monetary value, your mother had decided this was the greatest gift she could provide? A way to handle pressure, especially when you’re always underneath someone else’s opinion of you.

That makes using them against her now seem slightly twisted and backwards…

Strong hands slide to your hips. One of them is dangerously close to the pocket holding the makeshift map and enamel heart pin. Trying to focus on anything but the scorching feel of claws over that area, you point toward the staircase and lie.

“I…I was just thinking about how hard it was to not pass out standing up there. It always made me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.”

_“That feeling hasn’t gone away…”_

Present company’s only worsened it. Though you can’t see Sans’ face, your response earns you a burning on the back of your neck that can only come from one of his glowing red glares. It feels like one of those hundreds of cameras are focused on you.

While you remind yourself that until the powder wears off, he can’t read your thoughts, you wish that in this instance, it wasn’t a two way street. Not being able to read his is dangerous.

_“Trouble’s already here. Now you just have to be prepared for whatever happens next.”_

Why is he suddenly so quiet? Your face feels damp with sweat. You’re about to cave and confess everything. Just as you lean your head back, Sans shifts, shattering the silence.

“you don’t belong up there with them anymore. you belong to me now.” He rings your arms around your abdomen. The embrace lacks the flexibility of collagen; all you can feel is hard calcium entrapping you. It effectively imprisons you in his grip. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.

You look forward again and clear your throat. “I know. You’re right Sans.”

“bringing about the birth of your new family with the death of your old one,” Sans murmurs, more to himself than to you. “it’s perfect. almost poetic.”

The spot where you used to stand is now empty. The way your parents are positioned, it doesn’t look like out of place or unnatural. Like nothing’s missing at all.

Their little disappointment doesn’t exist anymore.

You know that the flutter in your stomach is most likely just indigestion, but it still brings about a horrible strike of shame. You’d sworn to be a better parent than your own were to you, and now you’re considering passing on their advice?

What is wrong with you?

_"S̴̟̈o̶͍̓ ̸̺͐w̵͓͗h̷̹̎ȁ̵͍t̶͓͒ ̵͛͜g̸͓r̷̘͌e̵̤̍a̵͍͐t̴̩̅ ̸̺̏w̷͔̄į̴̉s̵̬̓ḏ̶̈́o̷͕̓m̴̲̃ ̷͚̈ẃ̴̧i̸̩̽l̵̦̂l̸̩̚ ̸̱̓y̶͕͑o̵͑ͅû̴̫ ̶͈͝p̵̖̚a̴͎̕ṣ̴̈s̷̫͝ ̴͍̋d̵͓̃ô̷̗ẅ̷̞ṇ̴͋ ̷̧̄ṭ̴̋o̸̱̿ ̴͇͂ÿ̸͔́o̵̻͊ú̶̬ȑ̵̩ ̸̢͌o̵͍̅f̸̤͌f̵̮͋s̴̜͛p̵̖r̴͕̔i̸̢͐n̵̫̆g̷̹̏?̵͚̓"̸̨_

_~~  
~~_It takes a great amount of effort not to scream at the intrusion. While you manage to hold it in, you can’t help the tremor that jerks your body.

Of course, Sans notices. “what’s wrong now?”

“Nothing!” Your voice comes out unnaturally high pitched. As you plaster your arms to your sides, you work on bringing it back to a more normal pitch. “Low blood sugar makes me jittery. I should have drank more juice with breakfast this morning.”

You twist in his grip and smile to further reassure him. But mentally, you’re seething.

“ _Get out of my head! You’re going to ruin everything_!”

The static in your head shows no concern for your distaste over its presence.

“̶͚̈́W̵̢̑h̵̫a̵̩̓ẗ̶̹́ ̸͓͝w̷͈̎ì̴͍ḷ̶̇ḽ̴͘ ̴͚̈́ÿ̷̟ȍ̸͖u̶̬͂ ̸͖̾t̵̳͆e̸̗͘a̸̹͗c̴̱̔h̵͔̄ ̶̞͝y̵̎ͅo̶̜̔u̵̫͌r̸̹̒ ̵̪̌c̸̛͉h̵͊ͅi̸̩͊l̶̡̈́d̸͎̈́r̴̤͝ẻ̵̹n̵͚͑ ̴̱̾a̶̦̽b̵͖̆o̴̱̓u̵̡̽t̸͍͌ ̷̮͠t̴̘̿h̴̤̽e̸̥̾ ̸̡̆ẅ̸̩o̸̩r̴̟̍l̸̦̉ḏ̴̂?̶̱͑ ̴̩̒T̸̤̒h̴̗̒ä̸̟́t̸̲͆ ̴͎̏i̵͚͂ť̵̜ ̵̹̅i̸̝̋s̸͖̏ ̷͈̆k̴̫̈́į̷̿l̵͕l̴͇̚ ̵̤͑o̷̩͛r̸͇̆ ̶̰̈́b̵̗͝e̶͉͂ ̴̨̾k̷̖͂i̵͙̅l̵̤̕l̴͉̍e̸̟͑d̴̺̀?̷̡̛ ̴̝͌W̸̘̌i̵͉̽l̴̡̆l̷͎̚ ̶̙͂y̶͖̿o̴̕͜u̷̦̓ ̶̻̇h̵̛͉a̶̽͜v̸͉e̴̺̔ ̸̪̾t̶͎͒h̷̨̓ẹ̸̈́ṁ̸̼ ̴̝̄b̶̪̔e̸͎̓l̴͈̄i̴̧͝ẹ̸̛v̵̙̔ẽ̴͍ ̴̼̾t̵͙͗h̷̭̽a̵̹͘t̶̖̑ ̸̥̿d̵̰͊ĕ̸͜t̶̮̄e̴̞͗r̵͎͒m̶͙̉i̸͚͠n̴͈̈a̷̯͑t̷̠͆ȉ̴͍o̸̜̽n̵̫̋ ̶̹͠ī̵ͅs̷̱͝ ̵̳̉a̸̹̽ ̶͇̿s̴̲i̵̞̓n̶̺̈́,̸̠̚ ̴̟̄ǎ̶̟n̵͔̊d̷͕͛ ̸̫͊ț̶̏h̵̫̑ȁ̴̰t̵̡͝ ̶̡̛j̶̰̾ũ̴̺s̴̫̽t̴̥͌i̴͈͝c̵͚͘e̷̳̅ ̶̖̈́m̵͍̎e̷̤̚ą̵̊n̸̼͗s̸̢̓ ̷̮̆s̶͍͑t̶̐ͅr̵̮̈i̷͓̚k̸̲͠ĭ̸̤ṇ̸̕g̷̫͒ ̵͉͒d̶͎͌o̸̤̓w̷̩̽n̵̗̈́ ̸̧̾ť̶̗h̴͚̊ò̴̟s̷͓̿ȅ̴̤ ̵̠̆w̷̠͆h̶̫̅o̶̬͘ o̶̮͆p̸͕͝p̸̨̓o̵̞͝s̶̙̊e̴̹̕ ̴͎̊y̴͈̒o̴̡̕ů̶̝?̸̃ͅ”̵̜̚

Your temper flares. _“How dare you? I’ll be an amazing mother!”_

The voice remains infuriatingly calm as it crackles and pops in your head.

“̷̜͂I̶͕̍ ̶̳͆h̶͕̀a̵̦̅v̷̨̔e̴̲̋ ̷̪̆n̸̤̕o̸͖͌ ̵̨͝d̷͎̐o̵̕͜ṵ̴͂b̷͕͘ẗ̴̮́ ̸͒ͅẗ̶͇́h̷̼̀a̷͉̾t̵̜͐ ̴̳̑ẏ̸̦ǫ̶̛u̴̢͛ ̶͉͠c̶̢̑ȧ̵̭n̷̢̈́ ̷̯͆b̴͉̉e̵̡̽ ̸̥̚a̷͖̒ ̸͖͠g̵̛͙r̵͉͘ḛ̵̋a̴̮̎t̸͎͗ ̵̝̑m̴̬̀ó̵̝t̴̙̉h̶̞̿e̶͓̕r̴̟̐,̴̗̇ ̵̝̅i̴̪͆f̷̥͋ ̸̟̅ỹ̵̩o̴̝͠u̷̙̾ ̴̬̂c̷̢͆h̸͛ͅö̸̮́o̶̩͆s̵̺̎e̴̪͆ ̸͙̓t̶̊͜o̴̖͝ ̷͕͝b̶̜͗ḙ̷̆.̷̻̚ ̸͍͛B̷̞̄u̷̘̚t̶̹̾ ̵͇̃i̷̛͍f̸̥ ̵̤̎I̸̗͘ ̸̗̆r̴̛͖ė̸̖c̶̻̃ä̴̢́l̴̥̃l̷̙,̷̝̍ ̸̬̇t̴̢h̵̲̾ĭ̴̥s̷̺͂ ̷̖͗w̵̪͛a̷̦̒ş̸̅ ̸̘̓n̷̹̆o̵̜̽t̶̨͂ ̷̡̿r̵̨͠ẹ̸̍a̸̺͒ḻ̶̒l̵̛̪y̴̲̿ ̵̩̾ÿ̴̜́ő̶̺ü̴̺r̵̟̈ ̴̨̉c̵̞̚h̶̳̍ȍ̴͜i̸͉͠c̶̜ḛ̸͒,̵̐͜ ̵̡̛ẉ̴͂ặ̷s̵͑ͅ ̷͝ͅi̷̱̇t̶̪́?̶̩͐”̸͔̈

Your mouth flaps open, and somehow you manage to pass your indignation off as a coughing fit for Sans. He starts grumbling how you should have been smart enough to bring snacks or drinks, but you’re barely listening. You’re too fixated on trying to figure out how to protest how wrong the voice in your head is.

It’s true, in your original plans for the future, they didn’t involve getting pregnant. But sometimes life doesn’t go as you planned. Sometimes other powers that be know what’s better for you, and point you in a new direction.

Or, in your case, they thrust you in head first and don’t even watch to ensure that the dive doesn’t leave you splattered and broken on the concrete.

“aha!” Sans suddenly cries out in triumph. “you’re lucky i’ll never _desert_ you, sweetheart. this’ll take care of everything. one of your favorites.”

He’s been digging in his own pockets, and now rips himself away as his fingers come across a treasure. It’s a minor adjustment, but with just a touch of space between you, it becomes a little easier to breathe.

At first, his confidence ignites a fresh amount in you as well.

But then he holds the food up in front of you.

Its spherical form melts and squishes between his fingers. Sticky blue magic from the core oozes out of a tear in the foil wrapper, attracting fluff. It’s not a macaroon.

He’s smiling, but you no longer feel as warm.

Rather than handing the treat to you, he unwraps it himself. Then, he angles it towards your mouth, feeding you like a child. The firm push against your cracked lips offers no room for protest.

The chocolate is too rich for your sensitive taste buds. It brings you back to before the ceremony, when you were locked up inside the bedroom for a week, praying you wouldn’t go insane as the walls closed in around you.

You smile anyway.

“ _My life is happy now._ ”

“̸̭T̷̹̊h̸̓ͅỏ̷̱s̶̙̚e̵̲̕ ̴̳͝a̵̗͌r̶̬͂ę̵͠ ̸̞͑s̸̯̍t̶̯r̷̰̆o̴̼̍n̶̻̋g̴̡̊ ̴͔̊w̵̢͑o̸̘̔r̵͇͝d̶̞͑s̵͓͝ ̶̭̿f̸̪̌o̴̝̅r̷͈̀ ̶̘̏s̴͎̓o̶͔̐ṁ̵̺e̶̟̿o̴̦̍n̶̫͝e̷͙͑ ̷͉͝ẃ̷̫h̶̝̉o̵̤͛s̵̝͑e̶͉͘ ̷̥͐s̴̺p̸̗i̷͚r̵̳̓ȉ̸̠t̵̮̾ ̸̳́w̴̖͌â̶̬s̸̫̿ ̵̝j̸͉͆ü̷̝s̴͖̀ẗ̴͜ ̴̳̋c̷̘̆r̸̜̄ụ̷̑s̵̗͑h̵̝̍ḙ̸̚d̷͇̔ ̵̨͘b̶͓͊y̵͈̓ ̸͈͛ä̴̠ ̴̠͂s̶̖̈́n̷͈̂a̵̬̾c̴̻̓k̷͉̂.̴̦̀”̴̥̏

As the magic washes over you, it offers its usual relief for your physical aches. However, it also brings attention to past ailments.

The baby hairs on your left wrist itch like the skin is trapped under plaster.

The soles of your feet ache, and your toes tingle like they’ve been dusted with frostbite.

It does absolutely nothing for your mental qualms.

“̸̩̉A̷̝̓l̴͍̉l̷̘̈́ ̵̙͒o̷̗͑v̸͙͠e̷̹͋r̷͇̾ ̵͉͠y̴̝͐o̸̼͐ũ̸̝,̸͙͠ ̸̬͌I̵͍͗ ̸̧͘s̶͙̽e̵͇͑e̶͘͜ ̸̱̂t̶̠͌h̸̖͠e̶͙͠ ̵͎̓ṃ̷̈́ą̷̏r̶̖̄k̸̡͒s̵̛̮ ̸̜̾o̴̥͂f̸͕̈ ̴͙h̷̯̏i̷̼̐m̸̹̌.̶̟̉ ̷̥̐H̵̢̕e̷̼̅ ̴͓̕i̴̜͆s̷̙̑ ̶̞̈́ț̵͛r̵̒ͅy̵̧͛i̷̳̐ṅ̷̝g̴̪̈ ̴̺̚t̵̨̕o̶̙̾ ̷̭̓s̶̈͜t̵̛̟e̷̐͜ä̵̮l̶͈͛ ̴̡͠y̶͎͝o̶͖̍u̴̡͘ ̵̥͒f̶̖͒ṟ̷ȏ̵̠m̷̬̓ ̸̙́y̴͉̑o̴͎̊u̷̠͌r̷͍̉s̴̜͑ě̸̦l̷̥͗f̶̛̥.̸̢͛ ̸̺̒A̶͠ͅl̷̛̳r̵̳͑e̵͍̍a̴͗͜d̷̩͒ÿ̵̠́,̵̬̐ ̵͉͘s̵̩̈́o̸͈̐ ̷͚̚m̷̖̈́u̴͚͐c̵̟̑h̵͚̄ ̴͎̾o̸͙̓f̶̢̿ ̷͚̔ÿ̴̟́o̵̤̕u̶̖̓ ̴̬̽h̵̞̒a̵̼͘ŝ̶͓ ̸͜b̸̦̐ḛ̵̊e̸͖͒n̷̬̂ ̸͉̍t̸͝ͅa̵̢̿k̶͙̾ë̶̤ņ̴͑.̵̞̐”̷͓͘

The sweetness turns to rot. It cakes the inside of your mouth, leaving it feeling mucky. It reminds you of that day when he punished you for running away.

“̴̩̚D̵̲̔ö̶̘́ ̶̨͆n̶̫̈́o̷̲̓t̸͖̓ ̵̕ͅm̸̯̈́ã̵͔ḱ̷̬e̷̕͜ ̷͕̿e̸̙͠x̸̻́c̷̮͑u̷͙̇s̸͓̍è̴̘s̴̙̊ ̵̪̇f̴̤͛o̴̘̽r̶̥̈́ ̸̡̚h̴̫͊ï̵̪s̸̻̅ ̷͎͝ả̸̱c̷͎̽t̵̡̽i̴̺͠o̶̍͜ṅ̴̮s̷͚̕ ̵̛̣a̶͕͝n̶̝̽d̴̯̽ ̴̝̏a̸̯l̶̡͛l̷̟̐ọ̵̌w̶̻̆ ̵̛̫ť̶͓h̷̳̔e̴͙͋m̸̯̅ ̸̹͘t̵̻͝o̵̥͘ ̶̥̏ģ̷̑o̷͙͒ ̷͎̆ä̴̼́n̵̗͘y̶̘̌ ̵̙̀f̴̢u̵͕̿r̴͚͋t̷͕͊h̴̼͌e̴͔͛ṛ̶̕.̷̭͂”̸̰̇

When he tricked you into allowing him to shove his cock in your mouth, and then told you that you wanted it.

Heavy cocoa morphs into a swampy taste. You nearly gag, but Sans is watching, so you force yourself to swallow it down.

“Thank you Sans.”

It’s all you can think to say aloud. Mentally, there’s so much more for you to say.

“ _Everything he has of me, I gave it_.”

“̷̰̒N̷̡͂ơ̸̻.̴̡̿ ̸̮̾Y̴̲͐o̶͝ͅű̴͜ ̴͉̚d̶̠͛i̴̱d̴̰͆ ̷̼͋ṋ̴̉ô̵͕t̷̢̔.̶̥̅”̶͛͜

Your thoughts are spinning.

Sans can’t hear you right now.

It would be safe to admit…

…

It will never be safe.

“ _Stop trying to pretend like you care!”_ You silently demand. “ _What do you know about me? If you really cared, you wouldn’t have disappeared!_ ”

During the times you had needed help most, when you had felt entirely broken and alone, all it had given you was silence. Now suddenly it decides to pop up and spew cryptic nonsense?

You have no time or patience to solve riddles anymore.

“̴̪͆À̸̞f̵̹̃ț̴̈́e̸̙͐ŗ̶̓ ̵̖̀y̸̐͜o̷͖u̶͐ͅr̷̩̉ ̸̪͌ş̸͘o̶͔̊ṷ̷̈l̸̻̿ ̵̨́w̸̖̑a̷͎̕s̷̠͌ ̵͍̽m̸̫̅e̶̝͌r̵̬̕g̵̞͌e̷̪͗ḍ̷̚,̴̯͒ ̶̟͗I̸̞͛ ̸̜̀h̷͉͠a̵̙͛d̴̡͘ ̴̹́t̶̘̓o̷̟ ̸̗̕s̶͍̍i̴̜̽l̸̪̔e̵͔͑ṅ̸̗ć̷̟ë̸̳́ ̶̩͊m̶̺͠y̵̺͗ ̴̨̎v̵̡́o̴̙̒i̸̥̕c̵͌͜e̵̹͆,̶͓͊ ̶̮͂f̸̰͐o̴̗̓r̴̮̿ ̸̖̈́f̵̼̈́e̵͚̿a̶̞͑ŗ̷͆ ̶̟͗ẗ̸͔́h̸͓̔a̷̰̽t̴̝͐ ̷͚̈I̷͔͝ ̶͎͂w̵̢̑o̴̳͐ǘ̶̞l̶͚̈́d̴̮̊ ̵͍̄b̸̻͗ë̵̜ ̸̨͌d̸̳͑i̶͋͜s̷̖͋c̸̛͍o̴̜̾v̷̭͋e̷̘̒r̵͍̐e̵̍͜d̸̫̉,̷͓̕ ̸̹̌a̶̙͛n̶̻̉ḓ̷̾ ̵͚̆y̷̳ȯ̸̝ŭ̵̮ ̵̝w̷̜̐ȯ̸̞ụ̸̾l̸͈̍d̸̤́ ̶̤̈́b̸͎̕e̵̞͊a̷̦͌r̸̍͜ ̵̘̀t̷͝ͅh̴̞̎e̷̙͋ ̴͙̓r̸͈͠e̵͓̿p̷̫ȅ̷̫r̷̪̍c̵ͅu̵̖̐s̶̙͝s̶̱̿i̸̻͘o̸̲͂n̵̖̐s̶͈͆.̸̼̌ ̴̰͒Ḇ̴͝u̸̙͠t̸̰̂ ̵̼̓r̷̻͊e̷͙̓ş̴̂t̸͂ͅ ̵̗̎å̵̗s̷̯̋s̴̘̾û̸̟r̷͈̎e̴̗͝d̵̲̄ ̴̦̅c̴̍ͅh̴̳͋i̸̪͂l̸̠̋d̵͍̈́,̸̥͑ ̶̣͘ẙ̵̡o̶̼̊ư̷̢ ̷̓ͅȟ̷̨a̶̦̿v̸̰͠e̷̞̐ ̷̢̔n̸̞̈ẹ̵̎v̴̘̌e̴̯̓ṛ̷̔ ̵̙͘b̵̬͊e̶̘̍ë̴̤ṅ̶͈ ̸̱͋a̷̰͐l̸̠͊ȏ̶̧n̵͙͒e̵͈̿ ̵͍̐į̴͐n̴̪̉ ̸̳̀t̵̯́h̶̦̚i̴̖͝ś̶͓.̷̝”̴̬̈́"

You can’t fake a headache; not after Sans just watched you eat the truffle. Still, your forehead creases and your cheeks flush with heat. ~~~~

“why the sour face sweetheart? give me a big smile i can send to Papyrus.”

There’s a bright flash in front of your face. You wince, holding your arms up to try to block it.

When you put them down again, Sans is scowling down at his phone. “fucking piece of shit. never works when i need it to.”

He throws it at your feet. Carefully, you bend and pick it up.

The screen is cracked, buts somehow that’s the only damage, despite the force of his throw. Hesitantly, you tap it twice. As it lights up, you’re faced with the image Sans was so disappointed in.

At first glance, all the colors blur together in a wash of pixelated noise. It hurts your eyes to stare at. But as they adjust, it becomes a little clearer.

The pixels making up the abstract image aren’t square shaped.

They’re hundreds of colored hearts.

Exiting out of the gallery app, you tap the phone icon. As you scroll through the list of calls, you see that an error has turned all the letters and numbers into arrangements of code.

When you reach the specific date you’re looking for, rather than the number you hadn’t had a chance to erase, there’s a familiar jumble of symbols.

 _“Oh, I see.”_ Instead of feeling grateful, you lash out in scorn. _“This is the part where you ask me, ‘Who are you?’ and ‘Who do you fight for?’.”_

Before you can answer, Sans takes the phone away. “i guess it’s just a photo. don’t get so glum and lose your _focus_.”

He doesn’t seem to notice any of it. How?

“i’ve arranged for Paps to see you in person once this is all over and done with anyway.”

Your face pales. “He’s here?”

Sans looks at you as though you’re stupid. “his height and volume make him a bit too…noticeable to watch up close. but today’s going to be a monumental day. you think i’d want him to miss out on watching it?”

As you look out at the crowd, you realize there are no monsters there at all. A few humans hold signs you can’t read from this angle. But there’s no sign of Toriel or any of the members of her organization.

Were they not allowed onto the premises due to past events? Or were they too fearful to be seen?

“I guess with all the reporters, some of them are bound to be broadcasting this live,” you manage to spit out.

Sans barks out a laugh. “oh sweetheart, the monsters aren’t watching on television.”

_Then where are they? Hiding like you are? Or lurking in establishments close enough to the estate to watch from a distance?_

Sans gives your cheek a couple hard pats, then spins you around. “now _shutter_ up and pay attention. this is important.”

He’s getting impatient. He’s at the point where he wants this done sooner rather than later.

Your father finishes up his answer to another question. It must not be entirely satisfactory, because a group of humans rile themselves up. The anger in their voices reminds you of the horrible demonstrations of violence and cruelty that humans have shown their ability to afflict.

_Are the monsters lying in wait preparing for an ambush? Retaliation?_

If they are, they’re probably waiting for you to make the first move.

As your eyes follow the rabble-rousers being escorted off the premises, your soul leaps in your chest, ready for action. Maybe you should kill them first.

No. Politicians will send a message. Show the monsters respect, or suffer the consequences.

 _"You want to know who I am and who I fight for?”_ Your heartbeat increases tenfold. _“I’m Sans’ soulmate, the Angel of the Underground, and I fight for the monsters.”_

“̵͔̍Å̴̰r̴͕͂e̸̤͛ ̵̾͜y̶̻̚õ̴͇ǘ̴̳ ̸͎͂f̶͇̉i̴͇̕ḡ̵ͅh̷̹̓t̸̤͗i̸̙̒ṇ̵̕g̷̼̿ ̸̨͛f̴̘o̷̞̍r̷̡͌ ̷͕͆a̶̻̽l̸̖̚l̸͈͂ ̵͖̊m̶̨̃ỏ̵̬ň̷̰ș̶͘t̶̙̽e̷̘͘r̷̲̅s̴̮̒,̶̼́ ̷̗̏o̶̼͆r̵̨͌ ̴̗̔f̶̗̑o̵̊͜ṙ̷̭ ̶̲͐o̸̮̚n̶͚͌e̶͍̽ ̵̗̐m̵͚o̸̘̽n̷͔͝s̸̫͆t̵̟͗e̷̲͠r̶̲̓ ̶͓̄i̶̱̓n̷̤͑ ̷̞̿p̴̛̣a̷̘͑r̷͇̈́t̷͉͗ĭ̸̗c̴͚̆ụ̴̄l̴͖̂a̸̎ͅr̸͉͒?̶̩͠”̵̦̉

All of the effects of the magic you digested wash away.

You’re so willing to lash out against the masses of humans hurting monsters you’ve never even met. Yet when it comes to the pain inflicted upon you by one monster, it gets brushed aside as normal.

Is that right?

_“Please…I need to do this…”_

You’re not a trained dog.

You just want to stop being a disappointment.

You straighten your back. “Can we get a little closer again?” Even with the support of magic in your body, being pregnant, you’re worried about too much strain and exertion.

Sans nods. After hoisting the hood of his jacket up to cover his head, he grips your hand and silently guides you back onto the walkway. Rather than taking you directly into the crowd, he pulls you to the sideline.

“this is it. don’t let me down, sweetheart.”

He squeezes your hand in what you think is supposed to be encouragement. It hurts.

After the commotion, the crowd is settling down. Another reporter is pointed out and shouts his question. “There’s been talk that the date of the election is going to be potentially rescheduled to next year! Care to comment on that?”

Your father adjusts his tie and clears his throat. “This is an unprecedented situation. Ultimately, we believe that the decision of who runs this country should not be forced upon the people. We are trying to contact past candidates for the Labor and Green Parties, including those who were eliminated earlier in the proceedings, or chose to drop out. Unfortunately, many are reluctant to re-enter the running at this time.”

You’d forgotten how good he was at sounding sincere when he wasn’t yelling.

“as they should be,” Sans whispers. “listen to him. trying to make it seem like we should be grateful they’re sticking around. the only thing i’m grateful to those fucks for is when they gave you your stunning looks, you didn’t get their soul color. perseverance is almost as bad as determination.”

As much as you tried to erase them from your life, and as camouflaged as you are now, you can’t escape your genetics. The only part of you that doesn’t feel inherited is your soul.

In your dreams and hallucinations, their purple hearts had shone, but somehow in person, the brilliance is blinding. You can’t tear your eyes away. Rich as wine, the gleam is so dark compared to the fractured beacon of light residing in your chest.

That was probably the underlying reason behind all your problems with them. How could a child be born with a soul on the opposite end of the color scale as their parents and expect to be loved by them?

“̸͔̈H̶̞̓ạ̵̛v̶͙̓ḙ̶̛ ̸̯̉ÿ̷͚́ô̷̙ŭ̴̟ ̵̯͌ẹ̴͝v̶̫̇ë̶̟r̷͓̉ ̴̝̎ċ̸͕ȏ̷͙n̵̮̿s̷̳̐i̸̘͝d̴̪̔e̶͙̒r̷̡̈ȇ̵͓d̴̞̈ ̸͇͗h̴̼̋ǭ̸ẁ̵̼ ̴̝͋a̵̘̽ ̶͔̈́h̸̭̽u̵͕̍m̸͉̋å̴̙n̷̜̍’̴̟̽s̴͇̓ ̸͓̋s̸̨͝ỏ̷͇u̷͍̎l̷̟͐ ̴̮̈́g̸̜̔ȅ̸̙t̵͕s̵̠͝ ̵̘̆i̷̛̪t̸̩͐s̸̫̊ ̵̟̏c̶̠̏o̸͖̅l̵̛͇ọ̶̌ṛ̷̈?̷̩̒”̵̗͠

You’ve always assumed yours was a defect.

You shouldn’t give the voice the satisfaction of your curiosity.

But…

"Ẇ̸̦h̷͎̒ĕ̴̹n̴̘͒ ̴̡͗i̵̫͛n̶̖̿s̵̮̆i̵͙̎d̵̼͆e̸̱͑ ̶̜͒ẗ̴̰ḩ̶̌e̷̻̽ ̶͚͠w̴̺͘ȍ̵̖m̷̥̓b̶͈̂,̴̞͊ ̸͔͐i̷̙̿t̷͉̀ ̸̻́ỉ̷̥s̵͇̊ ̶̠͠ã̵̻ ̴̰̔m̷̘͗ǐ̸̡x̷͎̍ ̸̬̍ỏ̶̟f̴̤͋ ̷͇͝t̷̪̓h̷̺͆ȩ̶ ̵̭͝p̵̚͜a̸̳̽ř̶̘e̴̖͒n̶͎͆t̴̻̀s̶̥̓’̷̹͑ ̷̳c̶̳̃ö̶̤́l̶̲̽o̶̢̿r̸͉͋s̸̤͌,̵̛̣ ̵̇͜s̷̝̐i̸̞̓m̶̹̄p̵͈̌l̴̯̔y̷̦̿ ̶̡̇b̵͕͠e̸̫̕c̶͙̍a̵̗͐û̶͉s̶͚̽e̵̢̐ ̶͎͛o̸͕͘ń̷̲l̸͇͘y̷̪̆ ̸̭̽b̴͖̀i̸̯͛ỏ̵̫ļ̴͠o̶͔͌g̷̟̈́ỹ̷̭ ̴̲̾ẗ̴͈́r̴͙̍u̷̧l̸̻̇y̴̻̎ ̸͖̇ḿ̴̧a̸͘͜t̴̗̓t̸͇͂ë̸̮́r̸͇̄s̴̟̓ ̵̢͒d̴͝ͅų̶͐r̷̗͂i̴̯͝n̷̙͑g̴̢̀ ̴̲̃t̶̡͑ẖ̸͝a̵͈͘t̶͖̂ ̴̱̅t̵̩̓i̵̖̎m̵̝̽e̴͈̚.̶̻̅ ̷̠͊B̷̮́u̸̜͝t̶͍͊ ̸̯͑w̴͚h̷͉̄ë̷̢n̶̳̈ ̵̢t̷̹̍h̴̥̓e̶̺̚ỷ̶̞ ̵̠͗a̷̹͗r̸̹͆e̸̼͠ ̶̝͂ḇ̶̔o̴̤͠r̶̤̆n̴̗͝,̴̯ ̸̞͘ẗ̴̳́h̸̥̓o̶̔ͅs̵͚̽ẹ̴̐ ̶͉h̸̰͠u̶̖͝e̶̜s̷̢̈ ̵͈̑l̵̗͛e̶̳͂e̵̜̅c̵̢͘h̴͔͘ ̴̣̾á̸̡ẁ̷̱ả̸̩y̵͉͑,̵͖͒ ̸͚̎l̷̺̿e̵̢̿a̶̹̚v̶̻̌i̶̓͜n̷̢͗g̷̢͑ ̴̞̌t̶̬͝h̶̺̒ẽ̵̫m̷̫͘ e̸̲̚n̶̋ͅt̵͉i̶͠ͅr̵̲̋e̶͓͑l̶̩ỵ̶̕ ̸͓͝c̵̱̽o̵̪͠l̶̰͂o̶̜̕r̴͚̓l̴̘̐e̴̛͎s̴̠͠s̶̞͌.̶͎͆ ̷̙̿T̷̬͘h̴̠͛e̶͉̋y̵̡͆ ̷̦̽r̸̬͆e̶̡͊m̵̗̓á̴̪i̶͕͒n̵͝ͅ ̴̥͒l̴͈͊ì̶̖k̷̬͂ȅ̴̝ ̶͍̽t̷̼͗h̷͉͑ḁ̴̚t̸̤̂ ̸̩̄f̴͉̑o̷̗͌r̵̩͆ ̷͕̒t̶̤̆h̵̤̚ȇ̴̦ ̴̫̑f̶̥̉i̵͖͌ṟ̸͂ṡ̶̢t̵̟̔ ̴̠̐y̵͚͠e̶͚̐â̷͈ŗ̵͐ ̵̲͊o̴̡̒r̷͇ ̸͑ͅṣ̶̈́o̷̫͋ ̸̲͛o̴̰̎f̸͚̽ ̴͎͆t̴̏͜h̷̪̕e̵̩͌i̴̬̔ṛ̵̇ ̴̳̑l̴̙̇i̶̘̒f̵͈̋e̷͑ͅ,̴̮̇ ̶͒͜a̴̪̾ş̵̂ ̴̝̐a̸̻̔n̸̫̏ ̴̗́i̵͇̓n̴͝ͅf̵̰͐a̶̧͝n̵̺̚ṯ̶́ ̵̙̇d̵͗͜ô̷̖e̴͉͠s̴͚̋ ̶̙̏n̷̘͘o̷̰̕t̴͜͠ ̴̠̕h̴̟̎ą̸̚v̴̛̞e̸̱̿ ̵̬̇t̶̲ḧ̵́͜ĕ̷̹ ̸͖m̶̩͘e̴͒ͅṇ̴͑t̷̥̽a̶͓͐l̴͕̉ ̶̝͂c̷̜̕a̴̤͐p̶͉̀ā̶̹c̷̟̓i̷̯̋t̶̪̏y̸̠͑ ̸͈̕t̸̗̊ò̶̭ ̷̗̽u̷̞͂n̸͚̅d̸̂͜e̷͒͜r̷̮̕ș̵̚t̶̮͒à̶͈ṉ̸ḑ̵̋ ̸̭̄s̴͖̿u̴̱̍c̴͓͝h̸̠̎ ̵̜͋c̴̘͑ỏ̵͚m̸̬̓p̴̡̾l̴͉͆e̸͚̔x̸̠̎ ̶͚͘c̴͉̎o̸͍͗n̴̙̄c̴̢̓é̵̲p̶̅͜ẗ̴̰s̸͕.̷̱͆ ̴̗B̴̝͛u̶̖̎t̶̙͝ ̸̮̇a̴̼̎s̵̢͆ ̸͎̿t̵̺̾ḣ̵̘ḙ̵̎ĩ̷͕ȓ̵̰ ̵̜̀b̸̬͘r̶̘̈a̷͎͂ȋ̴̘n̷̞̈́ ̵͍m̵̖͝a̸͓̾t̸̝͝u̴͖ṛ̴̓e̴̞͝s̵̜̒,̴̘̿ ̴͚̐â̶͇n̵̰̓d̷̬̒ ̶̬̌t̸͈̀h̸̭͌e̷͓͂y̸̠̽ ̵̘̿a̸̧̛r̷̥͝e̶̖͌ ̵̜̊t̸͉̾ä̴͕́ú̷͕g̷͎̐h̷͔̆ṯ̶̓,̸̭̍ ̵̼̆t̵̝͛h̵̗̽e̷̯̎n̴̲̓ ̶͇̇t̵̛̙ḫ̷̉ę̷̏y̴̬̓ ̸̫̄c̴̡̚à̵̡ņ̸̈́ ̶̣̈́d̶̝̈e̴͕͠v̷̼́e̷͔͘l̵̰͑ò̶̤p̶̣̓ ̶̗͐v̵̢͂â̷̹l̴͔̎u̸͙͂e̶͓̚ṡ̸̰.̴͈̾ ̶̢̓T̵̮̊h̷͔̊a̷̛̻ẗ̶̡́ ̴̜͂ḯ̵ͅs̷͙̎ ̴̳͛w̴̘h̴̨̎e̷͈͛n̶̤̄ ̶̥̿t̶͉̓ḫ̶͂è̶̹i̷͖̎r̷̫ ̴̠͝ǐ̶͇d̸̬̏e̷͓̓n̴̹̂t̵̟̚i̸̖̕t̵͈̽y̴͖̓ ̸͚̑s̶̺̃t̸͔a̵̙̿r̸̫̅t̸͕̓s̶̝͌ ̶͙̍t̸͈̽ơ̸͚ ̴̬̎f̷̲͘ŏ̷̭r̷̟̐m̵͚̊."

You wish you could clap your hands over your ears, but the constant danger of your soulmate leaves it too much of a risk to take. 

"U̵̬l̴̮̚t̷͎͆i̷̺m̷̫̓ả̸ͅt̶̮̓e̶̻͛l̴͈͛y̸̱͝,̷̜̀ ̷͕͛t̴̺̎ḣ̵̭e̶̲ ̸̨̂c̵̞o̴̗̓l̵̘͝ö̵͇́r̷̓ͅ ̵̝̇t̷̜͠h̶̰͑ḁ̵t̵̖̎ ̵̡̅s̴̩̓t̷̝̉i̶̥͋c̸̺͐k̴̹̓s̶̝͊ ̷̥i̵̘̊s̵͍̏ ̶̼̽w̸̐͜h̷̟̽ä̵̩́t̶̜̋ ̸̻̊ṯ̷̏r̴̭̽a̸̼͠i̴̧̊ṯ̶̑ ̷͎̅m̸̹͠o̷̡͝s̵͈͘t̴̜͊ ̴̗͐s̶̝̈́t̷̫̋ṟ̴́o̸̬͝n̶̥͂g̶̯̓l̶̫̽y̸̮̆ ̸͚̎r̶̭̃ë̵̩́s̸͚̍ȍ̶̠n̴̗͘ă̴̩ṫ̷̢ė̶̻š̸̰ ̶̏͜w̷̟̕i̸̺̔t̵̘̔h̶͍͊ ̷̛͚t̸͉̍h̵̥͑e̵̜̚ ̵͕̕h̸̻̚ũ̴̻m̶̡à̵̘n̸̺̉.̸̲͂ ̸͇́O̶͇͊u̴̲͛t̶͊͜s̷̞̄î̶͎ḍ̶͝ḙ̷̏ ̸͉̓f̸̟͂o̶͍̒ŗ̷̏c̶̠̔ȇ̸͙s̶̠͆ ̶̗̍p̵̤͗l̷͙͗a̷͔͒ỷ̸͓ ̶͚̓a̸̖̿b̴͍̈́ş̸̒o̵̯͗l̷̟͊u̶̳͝t̴̥̎e̸̳͠l̶̺̓y̸̡͝ ̴̳͛n̸͓͗ȏ̵̝ ̵̰͆p̵̞̚a̷̝̚r̵̢̉t̶̺͋.̵͉̆ ̷̜̂I̴̡̓ṯ̶̀ ̶̼̂i̶̫͐s̵̤̆ ̷̥̚e̴̳͠n̶̻͒ṭ̸̾i̷̐͜r̵̥̊ë̶̥ļ̶̋ÿ̵̬́ ̵̘̆t̷̢̆h̵̰̓e̶͚̅ ̷̟͘c̸̻̍h̸͚̆i̸̝͋ḻ̴̆d̶͕̓’̶̙s̴̜̄ ̴̭͆c̴̼͑h̶̼̍ȏ̶͕i̵̮͊c̸̳̊ẽ̴̙."

Choice…

Concentration dashed, your eyes perform the unbidden motion of traveling downward.

Past your own soul.

…

Lower…

Above the typical press conference noise, is the deafening _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_ of a being who will ultimately rely on you for the nurture required to develop their identity.

They shouldn’t be named after you. That would make them feel they had to follow in your legacy.

You don’t want that for your child.

You want them to have every opportunity and so much more…

“quit daydreaming!” Sharp bone digs into your flesh to get your attention, leaving tiny imprinted lines. “you’re supposed to be looking at _their_ souls, not your own!”

You nearly bite your tongue as you look towards your parents again. “What if our child has a purple soul?”

Sans’ response is curt. “then i’ll deal with it.”

That answer fills you with dread. “Is there any color that you don’t hate inside a human soul? Surely you _must_ see the good that it can do!”

“are you kidding? i’d rather see them all bled dry.” Sans’ posture has gone rigid. He looks like at any moment, he could snap. “now stop arguing with me, or i’m gonna pull _your_ soul out!”

He doesn’t care.

To him, the traits of human souls are nothing but nuisances.

“Have the events of the last month made you consider dropping out of the election at all?”

The question from the audience drags your attention back to the matter at hand. If there’s one thing your child will know, it is _justice_.

The number of wrinkles on your father’s forehead has also increased. They don’t make him look tired though. It seems Senator Charles ( _L/N_ ), head campaigner of the Alliance Party, still remembers how to hold himself to pull them off as the result of years of proud, strong dedication to his position, rather than stress.

You used to be the primary cause of so much of that stress. You’re about to be again, whether he realizes it or not.

But this time you don’t feel guilty about it.

“First of all, we are deeply saddened by the deaths of all who were lost in the tragic events of the 20XX Debate. There has been much speculation, including some accusations that we planned the attack. These accusations are ludicrous, and quite frankly, insulting.”

You narrow your eyes. Blotches of deep blue appear, making your father’s soul look like an ugly bruise. But just as they start to spread, they fade into nothing. The color doesn’t feel right.

Frowning, you push harder, this time with the color orange. Again, it lights up with a brief pulse of light, but ultimately falls dim again.

You no longer feel like a warrior of strength and justice. You’re just frustrated. _“Why isn’t this working?”_

An image of the heel from the shoe belonging to the girl in the cabin pops into your head. The more you try to will it away, the harder it is to stop thinking about it. How you’d changed her soul from green to purple.

This is just like that.

Except it isn’t.

Because with that woman in the shed, you were acting on a desire to help. Here, you are more directed towards the intention to hurt. Just like with those men at the first debate.

You could have made them feel kindness so they would display compassion for the plight of the monsters. Or display integrity so they couldn’t speak their atrocious lies. But you put no thought into what moral or principle you wanted them to act upon.

But it didn’t matter.

They all ended up dead anyway, no matter your intentions.

“ _My mother and father hurt me too!_ _They made me feel worthless! Isn’t this fair? An eye for an eye?”_

Hidden under your clothing the scars of the past are long healed, but as your anger builds, they feel new again. The cracks in your soul, the ones being held together by Sans’ magic, suddenly feel like fresh wounds that have been ripped open again.

Your pain is intensified, and all you want is for the people in front of you to feel it.

You’re done with teaching lessons.

When your father reaches to adjust his tie, his hand accidentally nudges the lapel of his suit. As your eyes follow it they land upon the decoration that he knocked askew.

It’s a button with a red heart painted in the middle, just like the one in your pocket.

Suddenly that color is all you can see.

“That tragic day was the start of a dark descent on our country.” Your father continues. “We are in the midst of following a path that can only lead to devastation and ruin. We’ve known for a long time that action must be taken. As we have watched events progress, this seems especially obvious.”

He stops and coughs, and you watch as a pellet of blood ruby red blossoms on his soul. Your lips curl.

Sans is going to get to watch them bleed.

“But in fact, these events have only encouraged us to fight harder.” Your father’s voice sounds a little hoarser when his coughing fit subsides. “That is part of why we wanted to hold this press conference. We have been hidden away and silent long enough. We want to set the story straight. I am afraid that while our manager, Mr. Rouge Smith was a dear friend of ours, he did not do a good job of explaining or upholding some of our views during the debate. Particularly when it came to the subject of monsters.”

Your mother’s soul is next to start spotting. While most people are focused on your father, she still tries her best not to cause a scene. When a guard approaches her to check if she’s alright, she waves him away. But you can see the wince on her heavily made-up face.

“Weeks ago, we sent correspondence to the queen of the monsters, asking if she would be willing to work with us. We believed that she could offer much needed insight on the situation for monsters today, and what we can do. Today we received a response.”

Your burning adrenaline rush is obliterated as your own chest clutches. “Did he say?...”

The doors to the Parliament Building swing open, and Toriel nervously emerges to stand with your parents. She stands to the left of your father. As she is met with the blinding flashes of cameras, your father takes her hand and lifts it up with his own in an act of triumph.

Sans swerves to look at you. “did she tell you about this?”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Monsters and humans are standing side by side. Together. Looking happy.

Here you are, doing the very same thing, and yet you’re in agony.

You don’t know what anything means anymore.

The crowd is clearly just as taken aback. But your father pushes on.

“I am pleased to announce a partnership has been arranged. Together, we are moving forward with plans for legislation that will officially include monsters under our country’s Bill of Rights. If all goes well, this will allow every single one of them to register as fully fledged citizens.”

For once, the crowd is speechless. Slowly, the typical press conference noise starts up again. But above the chattering and confusion...

There’s clapping. Cheering.

 _Humans_ are cheering for _monsters._

And then the announcement comes that numbs your soul.

“You may be wondering why we were not present during last month’s debate. It was not because we were afraid or ashamed of our plans. In fact, we would have announced them had the opportunity been possible. But we could not, because we were holding the funeral ceremony for our daughter.”

On the screens, the live feed switches to full-sized images of your face. It’s a few years younger than you are now, but more recognizable than your reflection in the mirror this morning. 

Mid-laugh, you’re holding up your high school graduation diploma. Though photographs can’t capture souls yet, you can tell it’s there from the illumination behind your smile.

It’s so _bright_.

You can’t breathe.

“People often accused her of being a trouble maker. My wife and I confess we were guilty of that. We were often harsh with her, and as a result, we lost contact with her. We now realize that she was merely trying to find herself. To express herself as an individual.”

Your mother steps forward and leans her head against your father’s right shoulder. When he speaks again, his words come out choked. Your own throat locks up.

They’re _crying._

Over _you_.

“Our greatest regret is how we treated her while she was alive. If we had one more day to spend with her, we would use the time to let her know how proud we are of all that she accomplished in life. That even though she’s gone, we love her spirit.”

Panting, you lunge forward, but Sans immediately pulls you back.

“what the fuck are you doing?” His sockets are wild, but you’re no longer paying attention.

“Stop! No more! Please stop!” You beg, but you’re talking to yourself more than you are him.

You wanted them to suffer. But hasn’t there been enough suffering?

“Our daughter firmly believed that everyone should be free to live the life they choose, without fear of persecution. We want to honor her memory in the best way we can.”

You understand why your soul has been so dim. Why every time you tried to force their souls to shift color, it caused _you_ pain.

When Lady Liberty is depicted, she always carries three items; a blindfold to remain neutral and not to bias the judgement based on outside factors. A scale to measure the evidence of a crime. A sword to deliver the sentence. 

Your blindfold has been askew.

Your scales are unbalanced.

Your sword is too sharp.

You haven’t been trying to pursue justice…but _revenge_.

“If I am elected as leader of this fine nation, my first order of business will be to ensure that this bill is passed and made into law, effective immediately.”

Furiously, you try to pull back the metamorphosis. Your mother’s is only in the early stages, so it quickly reverts.

But your father’s is too far gone.

“I hope in the future, my wife and I will be fortunate enough to see this come to pass. We will be honored when we can announce the passing of the (Y/N) (L/N) Bill.”

His last words repeat in your head over and over again like your brain is an Echo Flower.

You don’t know what to feel.

You will never feel anything again.

What you are doing isn’t justice.

This is _wrong._

Suddenly there’s a commotion at the bottom of the stairs. Someone makes it a few steps before he is tackled by a handful of guards. He lands face first, and as his arms are wrenched behind his back, he hollers.

“Let me go! They need to hear this!”

“Wait!”

Everything stills as your mother’s strong voice rings out in command for the first time.

Her shoes were not made for running. She steps on the hem of her dress and stumbles, but after she catches herself, her pace does not slow. She continues to stumble ungracefully down the stairs.

You’ve never seen her look frantic before. Neither has the world.

“We know him! Let him speak!”

The guards back off. Your mother helps the man to his feet and hauls him up the stairs. Blood trails behind him and coats the bottom of your mother’s dress, but she takes no notice. When they reach the top, he turns and takes hold of the microphone like it’s a lifeline. When he speaks, it’s not directed to the audience, but rather, towards your parents.

His voice comes out gargled with blood from a potentially broken nose.

His soul gleams with a kindness you never thought you’d see again.

“My name is Andrew. I was a friend of (Y/N)’s. And I know it’s going to sound crazy, but I have reason to believe that she is still alive.”

When he turns to face the crowd, your picture disappears to allow his face to fill the screens. His beautiful eyes feel like they’re focused directly on you. “(Y/N), if you can hear this, wherever you are, I am going to find you. I promise.”

You can’t stop your gasp from escaping. Something sparks in your soul that you thought was long forgotten.

_Hope._

The crowd erupts into a swarm, with everyone demanding to know your family’s thoughts on these serious allegations. But for once, your parents are speechless.

As you turn, you see that Sans isn’t looking at Andrew. He’s tugging at the hole in his skull, and focused entirely on Toriel.

“traitorous _bitch_!” he seethes.

The air around you grows thick with the fog of magic. Before it can erupt, another human bursts to the front of the crowd.

“Monster sympathizers!”

_Bang!_

After the first, there’s a series of loud bangs. Your father staggers and collapses. He doesn’t get up again.

Toriel drops to his side, blocking your view of his soul.

But his skin was ashen enough for you to deduce it’s too late to do anything.

Guards quickly rush into action, with some working to apprehend the shooter, others escorting your mother to safety.

Her screams of devastation are the final nail in the your soul.

_What have you done?_

Pandemonium breaks loose.

Everything’s happening too quickly to process. Some of the crowd members drop to the ground. Others take off running. Hundreds of people are screaming and shouting to each other all at once, and it’s impossible to distinguish one voice from another.

In the frenzy, someone jams into Sans’ shoulder. He swirls to snarl at the escaping individual.

His grip on your hand loosens for only a fraction of a second, but that moment is long enough for a single word of command to rise above the danger.

"R̶̨̓u̶͙̽n̸̦̐."

By the time Sans has turned around again, it’s like you were never there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/End Notes: Physical and psychological abuse, references to sexual assault (including forced oral sex), forced drugging, violence and death (Including a shooting).  
> Please let me know if I have missed anything, and I will add it in. 
> 
> I can't wait to see what you all think of this new chapter!  
> I hope that everyone is staying safe and healthy during these scary times. <3 Shine bright; we're going to get through this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all who take a chance on this fic! I really do hope you enjoy it, and I can't wait to hear your feedback and comments!
> 
> I'm curious; what do you guys think that (y/n)'s soul color is? 
> 
> See you in the next chapter!


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